"I am doing this," Henri finished, a trifle ashamed of himself, "not for

mademoiselle, but for our army. And since when have you felt that the

best we can give is too much for such a purpose?"

Which was, however lofty, only a part of the truth.

So supplies came in plentifully, and Sara Lee pared vegetables and sang

a bit under her breath, and glowed with good will when at night the weary

vanguard of a weary little army stopped at her door and scraped the mud

off its boots and edged in shyly.

She was very happy, and her soup was growing famous. It is true that

the beef she used was not often beef, but she did not know that, and

merely complained that the meat was stringy. Now and then there was

no beef at all, and she used hares instead. On quiet days, when there

was little firing beyond the poplar trees, she went about with a basket

through the neglected winter gardens of the town. There were Brussels

sprouts, and sometimes she found in a cellar carrots or cabbages. She

had potatoes always.

It was at night then, from seven in the evening until one, that the

little house was busiest. Word had gone out through the trenches beyond

the poplar trees that slightly wounded men needing rest before walking

back to their billets, exhausted and sick men, were welcome to the little

house. It was soon necessary to give the officers tickets for the men.

Rene took them in at the door, with his rifle in the hollow of his arm,

and he was as implacable as a ticket taker at the opera.

Never once in all the months of her life there did Sara Lee have an ugly

word, an offensive glance. But, though she never knew this, many half

articulate and wholly earnest prayers were offered for her in those

little churches behind the lines where sometimes the men slept, and often

they prayed.

She was very businesslike. She sent home to the Ladies' Aid Society a

weekly record of what had been done: So many bowls of soup; so many

cups of chocolate; so many minor injuries dressed. Because, very soon,

she found first aid added to her activities. She sickened somewhat at

first. Later she allowed to Marie much of the serving of food, and in

the little salle a manger she had ready on the table basins, water,

cotton, iodine and bandages.

Henri explained the method to her.

"It is a matter of cleanliness," he said. "First one washes the wound

and then there is the iodine. Then cotton, a bandage, and--a surgeon

could do little more."




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