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in the night, as we were still marching, there was a halt. I went to my mother. She was cold, monsieur, cold and stiff. She was dead." She paused tragically. After a few moments she continued: "I fainted. I do not know what happened till I recovered consciousness at dawn. I found myself wrapped in one of our blankets, lying under the handcart. It was the market-square of a little town. And there were many--old men and women and children, refugees like me. I rose and found a paper--a leaf torn from a notebook--fixed to the handcart. It was from the officer, bidding me farewell. Military necessity forced him to go on with his men--but he had kept his word, and brought me to a place of safety.... That is how I first met the English, Monsieur Trevor. They had carried me, I suppose, on the handcart, all night, they who were broken with weariness. I owe them my life and my reason." "And your mother?" "How should I know? _Elle est restee la-bas_," she replied simply. She went on with her sewing. Doggie wondered how her hand could be so steady. There was a long silence. What words, save vain imprecations on the accursed race, were adequate? Presently her glance rested for a second or two on his sensitive face. "Why do you not smoke, Monsieur Trevor?" "May I?" "Of course. It calms the nerves. I ought not to have saddened you with my griefs." Doggie took out his pink packet and lit a cigarette. "You are very understanding, Mademoiselle Jeanne. But it does a selfish man like me good to be saddened by a story like yours. I have not had much opportunity in my life of feeling for another's suffering. And since the war--I am _abruti_." "You? Do you think if I had not found you just the reverse, I should have told you all this?" "You have paid me a great compliment, Mademoiselle Jeanne." Then, after awhile, he asked, "From the market-square of the little town you found means to come here?" "Alas, no!" she said, putting her work in her lap again. "I made my way, with my handcart--it was easy--to our original destination, a little farm belonging to the eldest brother of my father. The Farm of La Folette. He lived there alone, a widower, with his farm-servants. He had no children. We thought we were safe. Alas! news came that the Germans were always advancing. We had time to fly. All the farm-hands fled, except Pere Grigou, who loved him. But my uncle was obstinate. To a Frenchman, the soil he possesses is h
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