ave been wrong."

"Yes. But that is just the point. They weren't. He died as he had lived
without a thought for anything but music. I happened to hear a rather
wonderful story about his dying. Sergeant Timms, who drives the baker's
cart, was in the next cot to his, in the hospital. And my idea is that
if he could just tell her the story--just let her see that he went away
without a thought--she might get things in proportion again and let
herself get well."

"I see. Well, my dear, it is your idea. Is John going to drive you out?"

"No. He wanted to. But I'll have to find the Sergeant and take him with
me."

"In the baker's cart?"

"What a good idea! I would never have thought of that. And I've always
wanted to ride in a baker's cart. They smell so crusty."

So it was really the professor's fault that Bainbridge was scandalized
by the sight of young Mrs. Spence jogging comfortably along through the
outskirts in a bread cart driven by the one-time Sergeant Edward Timms.

"And him so silly with havin' her," said Mrs. Beatty (who first noticed
them), "that he didn't know a French roll from a currant bun."

Indeed we may as well admit that the gallant Sergeant confused more
things that day than rolls and buns. The latter part of his orderly
bread route was strewn thickly with indignant customers. For the
Sergeant was a thoroughgoing fellow quite incapable of a divided
interest.

"You can tell me the details of the story as we go along," Desire said,
"so that I shan't be interrupting your work at all."

The dazzled Sergeant agreed and immediately delivered two whites
instead of one brown and forgot the tickets.

"Well, you see," he said, "it was this way. We went over there
together, him and me. And we hadn't known each other, so to speak, not
intimate. You didn't know him yourself at all, did you?"

Desire shook her head.

"He was a queer one. Willin' as could be to do what he was told, but
forgettin' what it was, regular. Just naturally no good, like, except
with the fiddle. I will say, that with that there instrument he was a
Paderwooski--yes, mam! By the time our outfit got into them trenches
the boys was just clean dippy about him. They kind of took turns
dry-nursin' him and remindin' him of the things he'd got to do, and
doin' them for him when they could put it over. I'll tell you
this--it's my private suspicion that more than one chap went west
tryin' to keep the bullets offen him! Not that they were c