h which had come to be part of him. With
that the girl took his one good hand and stroked it. "If you could tell
the American Sister what it is," she spoke softly, "that troubles your
mind, perhaps I might help you. We Americans, you know," and she smiled
at him, "we are wonderful people. We can do all sorts of magic--and I
want to help you to rest, so much. I'd do anything to help you. Won't
you tell me what it is that bothers?" Evelyn Bruce's voice was winning,
and Duplessis' eyes rested on her affectionately.

"But how the Sister understands one!" he said. "It is true that there is
a trouble. It hinders me to die"--and the heavy sigh swept out again.
"It would be a luxury for me--dying. The pain is bad, at times. Yet the
Sister knows I am glad to have it, for France. Ah, yes! But--if I might
be released. Yet the thought of what I said to her keeps me from dying
always."

"What you said 'to her,' corporal?" repeated Evelyn. "Can't you tell me
what it was? I would try so hard to help you. I might perhaps."

"Who knows?" smiled the corporal, "It is true that Americans work magic.
And the Sister is of a goodness! But yes. Yet the Sister may laugh at
me, for it is a thing entirely childish, my trouble."

"I will not laugh at you, Corporal," said Evelyn, gravely, and felt
something wring her heart.

"If--then--if the Sister will not think it foolish--I will tell." The
Sister's answer was to stroke his fingers. "It is my child, my little
girl," Duplessis began in his deep, weak tones. "It was to her I made
the promise."

"What promise?" prompted Evelyn softly, as he stopped.

"One sees," the deep voice began again, "that when I told them goodbye,
the mother and Marie my wife, and the _petite_, who has five years,
then I started away, and would not look back, because I could not well
bear it, Sister. And suddenly, as I strode to the street from our
cottage, down the brick walk, where there are roses and also other
flowers, on both sides--suddenly I heard a cry. And it was the voice of
little Jeanne, the _petite_. I turned at that sound, for I could not
help it, Sister, and between the flowers the little one came running,
and as I bent she threw her arms about my neck and held me so tight,
tight that I could not loosen the little hands, not without hurting her.
'I will not let you go--I will not let you go.' She cried that again and
again. Till my heart was broken. But all the same, one had to go. One
was due to join