ous avez quelque chose a manger?"

"Rien. Rien du tout."

Wasn't her mother "trop malade a marcher?"

She shrugged; Monsieur could see for himself.

And her father?

He was dead; "mort a la Marne, en quatorze."

"At the Marne?" Claude repeated, glancing in perplexity at the
nursing baby. Her sharp eyes followed his, and she instantly
divined his doubt. "The baby?" she said quickly. "Oh, the baby is
not my brother, he is a Boche."

For a moment Claude did not understand. She repeated her
explanation impatiently, something disdainful and sinister in her
metallic little voice. A slow blush mounted to his forehead.

He pushed her toward her mother, "Attendez la."

"I guess we'll have to get them over to that farmhouse," he told
the men. He repeated what he had got of the child's story. When
he came to her laconic statement about the baby, they looked at
each other. Bert Fuller was afraid he might cry again, so he kept
muttering, "By God, if we'd a-got here sooner, by God if we had!"
as they ran back along the ditch.

Dell and Oscar made a chair of their crossed hands and carried
the woman, she was no great weight. Bert picked up the little boy
with the pink clock; "Come along, little frog, your legs ain't
long enough."

Claude walked behind, holding the screaming baby stiffly in his
arms. How was it possible for a baby to have such definite
personality, he asked himself, and how was it possible to dislike
a baby so much? He hated it for its square, tow-thatched head and
bloodless ears, and carried it with loathing... no wonder it
cried! When it got nothing by screaming and stiffening, however,
it suddenly grew quiet; regarded him with pale blue eyes, and
tried to make itself comfortable against his khaki coat. It put
out a grimy little fist and took hold of one of his buttons.
"Kamerad, eh?" he muttered, glaring at the infant. "Cut it out!"

Before they had their own supper that night, the boys carried hot
food and blankets down to their family.

VIII

Four o'clock... a summer dawn... his first morning in the
trenches.

Claude had just been along the line to see that the gun teams
were in position. This hour, when the light was changing, was a
favourite time for attack. He had come in late last night, and
had everything to learn. Mounting the firestep, he peeped over
the parapet between the sandbags, into the low, twisting mist.
Just then he could see nothing but the wire entanglement, with
birds