ite tablecloth with which she covered
the table. In a moment she had arranged places for two, opposite each
other.

"Sit down," she said, "and rest. I will go and fetch you something to
eat."

B. followed her to the door.

"Sister Gabrielle," he said, "we have found a Paradise."

But she had already shut the door, and we heard her in the kitchen
stimulating the zeal of the other two nuns in Flemish. We sat down,
delighted. What a long time since we had enjoyed such comfort!
Everything there seemed designed to charm our eyes and rest our minds.
There was no noise in the street, and the convent itself would have
seemed wrapped in sleep had it not been for the voices in the next
room. But the distant roar of the guns still went on, and seemed to
make our respite still more enjoyable.

We hardly heard Sister Gabrielle when she came in and put down the
steaming soup before us. The delicate perfume of the vegetables made
our mouths water. For many days past we had had nothing to eat but our
rations of tinned meat, and all that time we had not been able to
light a fire to cook anything at all. So we fell to eagerly upon our
well-filled plates. B. even lost the power of speech for the moment.

Meanwhile the pretty little Sister, without appearing to look at us,
was cutting bread, and then she brought a jug of golden beer. What a
treat it was! Why couldn't it be like this every day? In that case
the campaign would have seemed almost like a picnic. Whilst I was
eating I could not help admiring Sister Gabrielle; she looked so
refined in her modest black clothes. Her slightest movements were as
harmonious as those of an actress on the stage. But she was natural in
all she did, and the grace of every movement was instinctive. As she
placed before us an imposing-looking _omelette au lard_, that rascal
B., who had already swallowed two plates of soup and four large
glasses of beer, began to maunder thus:

"Sister Gabrielle, ... Sister Gabrielle, I don't want to go away
to-morrow. I want to end my days here with the old people you look
after. Look at me. I am getting old too, and have been severely tried
by life. Why shouldn't I stay where I am? I should have a nice little
bed in the old people's dormitory, with nice white sheets, go to bed
every evening on the stroke of eight, and you, Sister, would come and
tuck me up. I should sleep, and eat cabbage soup, and drink good
beer--your health. Sister!--and I shouldn't think any