ds seemed to hold their
breath.

Mlle. Olive sank back wearily in her chair. Claude looked up and
saw tears sparkling in her brilliant eyes. "And I myself," she
murmured, "did not know of the Marne until days afterward, though
my father and brother were both there! I was far off in Brittany,
and the trains did not run. That is what is wonderful, that you
are here, telling me this! We, we were taught from childhood that
some day the Germans would come; we grew up under that threat.
But you were so safe, with all your wheat and corn. Nothing could
touch you, nothing!"

Claude dropped his eyes. "Yes," he muttered, blushing, "shame
could. It pretty nearly did. We are pretty late." He rose from
his chair as if he were going to fetch something.... But
where was he to get it from? He shook his head. "I am afraid," he
said mournfully, "there is nothing I can say to make you
understand how far away it all seemed, how almost visionary. It
didn't only seem miles away, it seemed centuries away."

"But you do come,--so many, and from so far! It is the last
miracle of this war. I was in Paris on the fourth day of July,
when your Marines, just from Belleau Wood, marched for your
national fete, and I said to myself as they came on, 'That is a
new man!' Such heads they had, so fine there, behind the ears.
Such discipline and purpose. Our people laughed and called to
them and threw them flowers, but they never turned to look...
eyes straight before. They passed like men of destiny." She threw
out her hands with a swift movement and dropped them in her lap.
The emotion of that day came back in her face. As Claude looked
at her burning cheeks, her burning eyes, he understood that the
strain of this war had given her a perception that was almost
like a gift of prophecy.

A woman came up the hill carrying a baby. Mlle. de Courcy went to
meet her and took her into the house. Claude sat down again,
almost lost to himself in the feeling of being completely
understood, of being no longer a stranger. In the far distance
the big guns were booming at intervals. Down in the garden Louis
was singing. Again he wished he knew the words of Louis' songs.
The airs were rather melancholy, but they were sung very
cheerfully. There was something open and warm about the boy's
voice, as there was about his face-something blond, too. It was
distinctly a bland voice, like summer wheatfields, ripe and
waving. Claude sat alone for half an hour or more, tas