flected for a few moments, then she stretched out a thin
hand.

"_Ma petite Jeanne cherie_, you are rich now."

"I don't know exactly," replied Jeanne, with a mingling of truth and
caution. "I have enough for the present."

"How did it all happen?"

"It was part of a military operation," said Jeanne.

Perhaps later she might tell Aunt Morin about Doggie. But now the
thing was too sacred. Aunt Morin would question, question maddeningly,
until the rainbow of her fairy-tale was unwoven. The salient fact of
the recovery of her fortune should be enough for Aunt Morin. It was.
The old woman of the pain-pinched features looked at her wistfully
from sunken grey eyes.

"And now that you are rich, my little Jeanne, you will not leave your
poor old aunt, who loves you so much, to die alone?"

"_Ah, mais non! mais non! mais non!_" cried Jeanne indignantly. "What
do you think I am made of?"

"Ah!" breathed Aunt Morin, comforted.

"Also," said Jeanne, in the matter-of-fact French way, "_Si tu veux_,
I will henceforward pay for my lodging and nourishment."

"You are very good, my little Jeanne," said Aunt Morin. "That will be
a great help, for, _vois-tu_, we are very poor."

"_Oui, ma tante._ It is the war."

"Ah, the war, the war; this awful war! One has nothing left."

Jeanne smiled. Aunt Morin had a very comfortably invested fortune
left, for the late Monsieur Morin, corn, hay and seed merchant, had
been a very astute person. It would make little difference to the
comfort of Aunt Morin, or to the prospects of Cousin Gaspard in
Madagascar, whether the present business of Veuve Morin et Fils went
on or not. Of this Aunt Morin, in lighter moods, had boasted many
times.

"Every one must do what they can," said Jeanne.

"Perfectly," said Aunt Morin. "You are a young girl who well
understands things. And now--it is not good for young people to stay
in a sick-room--one needs the fresh air. _Va te distraire, ma petite._
I am quite comfortable."

So Jeanne went out to distract a self already distraught with great
wonder, great pride and great fear.

He had done that for her. The wonder of it bewildered her, the pride
of it thrilled her. But he was wounded. Fear smothered her joy. They
had said there was no danger. But soldiers always made light of
wounds. It was their way in this horrible war, in the intimate midst
of which she had her being. If a man was not dead, he was alive, and
thereby accounted lucky. In their g