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