Henri roused himself. He was very thirsty, and the wound in his arm

ached. When he raised his hand to salute the movement was painful.

It was a very grave Sara Lee he found in the officer's cabin when he

went inside later on. She was sitting on the long seat below the open

port, her hat slightly askew and her hands folded in her lap. Her bag

was beside her, and there was in her eyes a perplexity Henri was too

wretched to notice.

For the first time Sara Lee was realizing the full value of the thing

she was throwing away. She had persistently discounted it until now.

She had been grateful for it. She had felt unworthy of it. But now,

on the edge of leaving it, she felt that something infinitely precious

and very beautiful was going out of her life. She had already a sense

of loss.

For the first time, too, she was allowing herself to think of certain

contingencies that were now forever impossible. For instance, suppose

she had stayed with Mrs. Cameron? Suppose she had broken her promise

to Harvey and remained at the little house? Suppose she had done as

Henri had so wildly urged her, and had broken entirely with Harvey?

Would she have married Henri?

There was a certain element of caution in the girl. It made the chances

she had taken rather more courageous, indeed, because she had always

counted the cost. But marriage was not a matter for taking chances. One

should know not only the man, but his setting, though she would not have

thought of it in that way. Not only the man, but the things that made up

his life--his people, his home.

And Henri was to her still a figure, not so much now of mystery as of

detachment. Except Jean he had no intimates. He had no family on the

only side of the line she knew. He had not even a country.

She had reached that point when Henri came below and saluted her stiffly

from the doorway.

"Henri!" she said. "I believe you are ill!"

"I am not ill," he said, and threw himself into the corner of the seat.

"You have read it?"

She nodded. Even thinking of it brought a lump into her throat. He

bent forward, but he did not touch her.

"I meant it, Saralie," he said. "Sometimes men are infatuated, and

write what they do not mean. They are sincere at the time, and then

later on--But I meant it. I shall always mean it."




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