Daylight found the street pitiful indeed. Henri, whose costume Rene had

been casting wondering glances at all night, sent a request for men from

the trenches to clear away the bodies of the horses and bury them, and

somewhat later over a single grave in the fields there was a simple

ceremony of burial for the men who had fallen. Henri had changed again

by that time, but he sternly forbade Sara Lee to attend.

"On pain," he said, "of no more supplies, mademoiselle. These things

must be. They are war. But you can do nothing to help, and it will

be very sad."

Ambulances took away the wounded at dawn, and the little house became

quiet once more. With planks Rene repaired the damage to the corner,

and triumphantly produced and set up another stove. He even put up a

mantelshelf, and on it, smiling somewhat, he placed Harvey's picture.

Sara Lee saw it there, and a tiny seed of resentment took root and grew.

"If there had been no one here last night," she said to the photograph,

"many more would have died. How can you say I am cruel to you? Isn't

this worth the doing?"

But Harvey remained impassive, detached, his eyes on the photographer's

white muslin screen. And the angle of his jaw was set and dogged.




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