Henri and Jean came often. And more than once during the first ten days

Jean spent the night rolled in a blanket by the kitchen fire, and Henri

disappeared. He was always back in the morning, however, looking dirty

and very tired. Sara Lee sewed more than one rent for him, those days,

but she was strangely incurious. It was as though, where everything was

strange, Henri's erratic comings and goings were but a part with the rest.

Then one night the unexpected happened. The village was shelled.

Sara Lee had received her first letter from Harvey that day. The maid

at Morley's had forwarded it to her, and Henri had brought it up.

"I think I have brought you something you wish for very much," he said,

looking down at her.

"Mutton?" she inquired anxiously.

"Better than that."

"Sugar?"

"A letter, mademoiselle."

Afterward he could not quite understand the way she had suddenly drawn

in her breath. He had no memory, as she had, of Harvey's obstinate anger

at her going, his conviction that she was doing a thing criminally wrong

and cruel.

"Give it to me, please."

She took it into her room and closed the door. When she came out again

she was composed and quiet, but rather white. Poor Henri! He was half

mad that day with jealousy. Her whiteness he construed as longing.

This is a part of Harvey's letter:

You may think that I have become reconciled, but I have not. If I could

see any reason for it I might. But what reason is there? So many others,

older and more experienced, could do what you are doing, and more

safely.

In your letter from the steamer you tell me not to worry. Good God, Sara

Lee, how can I help worrying? I do not even know where you are! If you

are in England, well and good. If you are abroad I do not want to know

it. I know these foreigners. I run into them every day. And they do not

understand American women. I get crazy when I think about it. I have had

to let the Leete house go. There is not likely to be such a chance soon

again. Business is good, but I don't seem to care much about it any

more. Honestly, dear, I think you have treated me very badly. I always

feel as though the people I meet are wondering if we have quarreled or

what on earth took you away on this wild-goose chase. I don't know

myself, so how can I tell them?




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