o have reproached you," she said steadily.
"_C'est un grand malheur._"

"You are right. Life for me is no longer of much value."

She looked at him in her penetrating way.

"I believe you," she said. "For the moment, _au revoir_. You must be
worn out with fatigue."

She left him and walked through the straggling men, who made
respectful way for her. All knew of her friendship with Doggie Trevor
and all realized the nature of this interview. They liked Doggie
because he was good-natured and plucky, and never complained and would
play the whistle on march as long as breath enough remained in his
body. As his uncle, the Dean, had said, breed told. In a curious,
half-grudging way they recognized the fact. They laughed at his
singular inefficiency in the multitudinous arts of the handy-man,
proficiency in which is expected from the modern private, but they
knew that he would go on till he dropped. And knowing that, they saved
him from many a reprimand which his absurd efforts in the arts
aforesaid would have brought upon him. And now that Doggie was gone,
they deplored his loss. But so many had gone. So many had been
deplored. Human nature is only capable of a certain amount of
deploring while retaining its sanity. The men let the pale French
girl, who was Doggie Trevor's friend, pass by in respectful
silence--and that, for them, was their final tribute to Doggie Trevor.

Jeanne passed into the kitchen. Toinette drew a sharp breath at the
sight of her face.

"_Quoi? Il n'est pas la?_"

"No," said Jeanne. "He is wounded." It was impossible to explain to
Toinette.

"Badly?"

"They don't know."

"_Oh, la, la!_" sighed Toinette. "That always happens. That is what
I told you."

"We have no time to think of such things," said Jeanne.

The regimental cooks came up for the hot water, and soon the hungry,
weary, nerve-racked men were served with the morning meal. And Jeanne
stood in the courtyard in front of the kitchen door and helped with
the filling of the tea-kettles, as though no little English soldier
called "Dog-gie" had ever existed in the regiment.

The first pale shaft of sunlight fell upon the kitchen side of the
courtyard, and in it Jeanne stood illuminated. It touched the shades
of gold in her dark brown hair, and lit up her pale face and great
unsmiling eyes. But her lips smiled valiantly.

"What do yer think, Mac," said Mo Shendish, squatting on the
flagstones, "do you think she was really sweet on