Then she offered each one of the French girls a silver ring. When she came to Yvonne, clasping the Fire Maker’s bracelet about her wrist, she whispered:

“We feel, Yvonne, that you have a right to a higher order in our new Camp Fire group than the other members because of the help you have given us in whatever work we have attempted since our arrival in France. In fact, you are the leading French Camp Fire girl!”

A moment later, in answer to a signal, Mrs. Burton walked over and stood just beyond the two circles of girls and the camp fire and close to the Allied flags.

“There is not much I feel able to say to you,” she began, speaking in a simple and friendly fashion. “I think perhaps you are already beginning to understand how intensely the people of the United States desire to render to France a part of the debt we owe her. It is France who has saved our liberty and the liberty of the entire world.

“Now I hope that the first group of Camp Fire girls in France will later carry the flaming torch until the news of the Camp Fire movement has spread through all the French land. In the Camp Fire life we look for the romance, the beauty and the adventure which may be hidden in the smallest task. More important than these things I hope Camp Fire girls the world over may become a part of the new spirit everywhere growing up among women, the spirit of union, the ability to work and play together as men have in the past. For once all girls and women are united, there will be a new league for peace among the nations such as this world has never known.”

CHAPTER XIII
A DEPARTURE AND AN ARRIVAL

“But I am not ill, Aunt Patricia,” Mrs. Burton protested as soon as she was allowed an opportunity to speak. “I only came in to have a talk with you about something important.”

Aunt Patricia’s bedroom was large and empty, for there was more space at the old farm house than furniture. A great old-fashioned French bed had been spared from the general wreckage and upon this Mrs. Burton seated herself, drawing her feet up under her and her lavender dressing gown about her, since with so little heat in the house the bedrooms were uncomfortably cold.

There was but one solitary stiff-backed chair, in which Miss Patricia sat perfectly erect.

“Why not come here and sit beside me? There is plenty of room, and you will be more comfortable,” Mrs. Burton urged.

Aunt Patricia shook her head.

“I am quite comfortable where I am. Moreover, Polly Burton, if I am an old woman and you no longer a young one, at the same time I am aware that you have every idea of trying to persuade me to some point of view of which you do not think I will approve. I have seen your methods before this evening. Thank you, I shall remain where I am.”

Mrs. Burton laughed.

Aunt Patricia did look so uncompromising in a hideous smoke-gray dressing gown made without any attempt at decorations. Her small knot of hair was screwed into a tight coil at the back of her head.

Mrs. Burton’s own hair had kept its beautiful dusky quality, it had the dark sheen of the hair of the mythical Irish fairies, for only in Anglo-Saxon countries are fairies of necessity fair. Tonight Mrs. Burton’s hair was unbound and hung about her shoulders as if she were a girl.

Fearing that Miss Patricia might regard her frivolous appearance with disfavor, she now began braiding it into one heavy braid.

“What ever it is you desire to say, I do wish you would begin, Polly, so that we both can go to bed,” the elderly spinster remarked.

Mrs. Burton shook her head. “You are not in a good humor, are you, Aunt Patricia? But at least there is one thing you will be glad to hear: our guests, Monsieur Duval and Mrs. Bishop, are leaving our farm the day after tomorrow.”

“A good riddance,” Miss Patricia answered sharply.

Then observing that her companion had flushed and undoubtedly was annoyed by her plain speaking, Aunt Patricia’s manner became slightly mollified.

“It is not that I have anything personal against your friends, Polly. I must say they have both endeavored to be very agreeable since their arrival and to give as little trouble as possible. But I told you on board ship I did not like the attitude of that Frenchman toward you. It was no surprise to me when he discovered he had important business in this part of France. Of course it should not be necessary for me to remind you that you are a married woman, with your unfortunate husband serving his country in France many miles from here and also that you are chaperoning a group of young girls. I suppose you will simply tell me that I do not understand French manners, but that is neither here nor there, Polly Burton. Your Frenchman is polite to your friend, Mrs. Bishop, I must confess he is also courteous to me; but I am obliged to repeat that his manner neither to Mrs. Bishop nor to me is in the least like his manner to you.”

“Aunt Patricia, you are so ridiculous! Still I don’t feel like laughing this time; you really are making me angry,” Mrs. Burton answered.

“I have made a great many persons angry in my life, Polly. I cannot even flatter myself that this is the first time I have offended you. However, I feel compelled to speak the truth.” Miss Patricia’s tone remained imperturbable.

“But that is just the trouble, Aunt Patricia, you are not speaking the truth, although of course I know you don’t realize it and I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Burton argued. “But why do you allow yourself to acquire such prejudices and such foolish impressions? I simply refuse to discuss the suggestion you have just made. Please never speak of it to me again.”

Ordinarily when the celebrated Mrs. Burton assumed an air of offended dignity such as she wore at present her world was apt to sue for pardon. Miss Patricia revealed no such intention. As a matter of fact, as she remained resolutely silent and as Mrs. Burton had not yet explained the reason for her visit, it was she who had to resume the conversation in a conciliatory manner.

“I presume you won’t approve then, Aunt Patricia, of what I wish to speak to you. Monsieur Duval has been ordered to southern France on some work for his government and has asked Mrs. Bishop and me to accompany him, because it is work in which he thinks we may be useful. You know the Germans have been sending back some of the French refugees whom they drove before them in their retreat. There are groups of five hundred at a time who now and then are sent over the border either from Germany or Switzerland. They are penniless and not only have no money or food or clothes; they do not know whether their families are living or dead and in any case have no way to reach them. The French government is to try to arrange some plan by which homes may be secured for these unfortunate people until they can communicate with their relatives or friends.”

“An excellent idea, but I do not exactly see your connection with it,” Miss Patricia returned.

Mrs. Burton shrugged her shoulders impatiently. In all her life she never remembered any one who had opposed her desires in exactly the same fashion Miss Patricia did. Then, a little ashamed of herself, she answered gently but firmly:

“My connection is that I am interested and that Mrs. Bishop and I have both decided to accompany Monsieur Duval. It is barely possible that we may be useful and able to offer a certain amount of advice. So many of the refugees are young women who have suffered impossible things and may require special care and shelter. Besides, I am very deeply anxious to see more of the country. We expect to travel south in the sector the Germans held three years ago. I will thus be able to find out how much restoration work has already been accomplished and how great a task remains. Moreover, Aunt Patricia dear, I have a personal errand. Surely you will think this important.

“You remember my talking to you of the old peasant whose granddaughter, Elsie, had been driven into exile. Except to me the old woman has never spoken of her loss. Now there is a possibility that Elsie has been sent back into France and I have promised Grand’mère to search for her.

“Moreover, Aunt Patricia, each village in the devastated districts has been ordered to prepare a list of names of the missing who disappeared at the time of the German retreat. These lists are to be turned over to Monsieur Duval. A committee is to be appointed near the frontier to take charge of the lists and see that the refugees get in touch with their own people as soon as possible. Don’t you think this a wonderful scheme?”

As Mrs. Burton unfolded the plan which had been carefully worked out with a great deal of foresight and care, in her enthusiasm she forgot Miss Patricia’s chilling attitude. She had spent many hours during the brief visit at the farm of Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval in the outline she had just explained.

Aunt Patricia continued to look unimpressed and uninspired.

“I told you before, Polly, that I had no idea of criticizing Monsieur Duval’s efforts in behalf of his government. I know the situation you speak of is extremely deplorable. Still I fail to see any reason for your assistance. There is sufficient work for you in this immediate neighborhood. However, I presume you have definitely made up your mind,” Miss Patricia concluded.

Before replying, Mrs. Burton waited a moment, watching for a sign of yielding in her companion. But as Miss Patricia gave none, she nodded her head.

“Yes, Aunt Patricia, I am going with Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval, although I am sorry you do not approve of my making the trip. I won’t be away more than two weeks and I feel I may be of greater service than by remaining here.”

“You also feel that traveling about through the French country with a distinguished French politician and a woman author will be far more exciting than staying at the farm and doing your duty, Polly Burton,” Miss Patricia added, allowing her accumulated anger to overflow at last. “Do, please, whatever else you wish to add by way of camouflage, at least confess the truth. I presume it is your idea to leave me to look after the group of girls you undertook to chaperon in France?”

In spite of the fact that by this time, Mrs. Burton, whose amiability was never her strong point, was in as bad a temper as her antagonist, she had to confess to herself that in Miss Patricia’s last speech the scales dropped in her favor.

“Why, yes, Aunt Patricia, that is what I wish you to do. But will it be such a serious responsibility? The work at the farm is so splendidly organized now and the girls are so deeply interested, I don’t see why you should have any especial difficulty if you will just allow things to go on as they are at present.”

Of her own free will Miss Patricia at this moment rose from her stiff chair and came and sat on the edge of the bed facing the younger woman. She showed no sign of relaxing either physically or mentally, or of any softening in her rigid point of view.

“I wonder, Polly Burton, if you have any reason for believing that things usually go on in exactly the same fashion in this world, after one has carefully arranged that they should? Of course I shall do my best to look after the Camp Fire girls, although they do not like me and I do not understand them. There is no telling what may occur in your absence,” Miss Patricia ended so gloomily that Mrs. Burton’s eyes shone with merriment, although she carefully lowered her lids.

At the same instant, to her surprise, she felt Miss Patricia lean over and seize her by both shoulders. For a second she wondered if Aunt Patricia had made up her mind to shake her because of her rebellion. Instead Miss Patricia added unexpectedly:

“Polly, my dear child, I really don’t wish you to go on this wild goose chase, partly for the reasons I have given you, but also because I am afraid for you. You know the world is expecting another great German offensive this spring and no one understands why it has been delayed so long. Well, you must realize that as you travel farther south in France the line between the German and the French armies grows narrower and narrower. Only a few miles of victory and the Germans will again occupy their old line! It is possible you might arrive at some district at a crucial moment when a battle was beginning. Then the saints alone could preserve you!”

With the last few words of her long speech Miss Patricia reverted to her Irish brogue and her Irish faith.

Afterwards Mrs. Burton was glad to remember that, although Aunt Patricia certainly was not regarding her with affection at the moment, nevertheless, she slipped her arm about the elderly lady’s hard and upright shoulders.

“You are a dear, Aunt Patricia! But please don’t worry. We are not going into any dangerous neighborhoods. The drive will not begin for many weeks. In any case there will be no retreat. Yet indeed we mean to take every possible precaution and at no time will we be near the German line. It is good of you to think I am worth worrying over, but this time it is not necessary.”

“Have you your husband’s permission for this trip, Polly? I presume you have written Richard Burton of your new French friend?” Aunt Patricia demanded as a last forlorn hope.

In reply Mrs. Burton smiled and nodded.

“Yes, I have done both of those things. I wrote Richard about Monsieur Duval soon after our meeting on shipboard. But of course I have had no reply to my letter with regard to my trip south with Mrs. Bishop and Monsieur Duval, for there is not time for me to hear before we leave.”

“And nothing will change your decision, Polly?”

Mrs. Burton had slid down on to the floor from the high old bed and now stood before Miss Patricia, hesitating for the fraction of a second.

“I do wish you would not put the question in such a way, Aunt Patricia. You make me think of what Sally Ashton said to you, as if I too were a disobedient child, and I am more than twice Sally’s age. Of course I do not wish to do anything you oppose, but the trip to southern France and the work I hope to be able to accomplish will be a great opportunity and a great experience. I hope you will make up your mind to feel as I do before we start the day after tomorrow.”

Before Aunt Patricia could reply, Mrs. Burton made a hasty and carefully designed retreat. Being fully cognizant that there was no possibility of Miss Patricia’s relenting, she wished to pretend to believe she might change her mind and at the same time to announce the proposed time for her own departure.

Fortunately for Mrs. Burton’s courage and decision, her plan met with no especial opposition from any other member of the Camp Fire group.

The girls regretted her leaving, and Sally Ashton more than the others; nevertheless it appealed to them as it had to Mrs. Burton, as a wonderful chance for service and at the same time a thrilling adventure.

Two days later, even at the moment when the automobile appeared at the door to bear off Mrs. Burton and her two companions, Miss Patricia’s attitude remained unchanged.

Mrs. Burton devoted the last five minutes before her departure to begging Aunt Patricia to bestow her final consent and parting blessing. Aunt Patricia steadfastly refused.

She also declined to see the automobile leave the farm. Instead, during the final farewells, turning her back upon the assembly, she marched up alone to her own room. Once inside, it is true she wiped away several tears, but immediately after set herself to writing a letter to Captain Richard Burton. And Captain Burton and Miss Patricia only were to know what the letter contained! Fortunately Captain Burton understood Miss Patricia and her devotion to his wife. Moreover, the extent of her devotion was to be proven later.

The following day, perhaps because of Miss Patricia’s prediction that nothing in life runs on continuously in the same groove, an unexpected telegram was brought out to the French farm house for Peggy Webster.

In the telegram Lieutenant Ralph Marshall of the United States Aviation Service in France stated that, having been slightly injured by a fall, he had secured a few day’s leave of absence. Would he be permitted to spend his leave with Mrs. Burton and the Camp Fire girls at their farm house on the Aisne?

To Peggy Webster there appeared to be but one possible answer to this amazing piece of good fortune, and fortunately she was able to persuade Aunt Patricia to the same point of view. Miss Patricia did not approve of young men, but she did approve of Peggy and understood the situation in regard to Ralph.

Therefore the return telegram read: “Yes.”

Except for brief intervals, Peggy and Ralph had seen but little of each other since their summer together in Arizona, a summer which had been fateful for them both. It had not occurred to Peggy that either she or Ralph would ever change their minds with regard to their future marriage, in spite of the fact that she was but eighteen years old and Ralph not much older. There remained only the question of persuading their two families to share their view.

In the last two years Ralph had been redeeming his former idleness. Having volunteered for aviation work before the entry of the United States into the world war, he had been able to secure a commission and already had been in France a number of months.

CHAPTER XIV
A WARNING

There was no reason why she should feel alarmed. So far as she knew, every member of her household was occupied with the day’s work. From the schoolroom below she could hear the voices of the children singing a little French chanson, and now and then one of the older girls either asking a question or reciting. Alice Ashton and Bettina Graham, Marta Clark and Yvonne Fleury were engaged with their pupils.

An hour before Peggy and Vera had driven off in the motor with Mary Gilchrist, since Mary had promised to transport a number of wounded soldiers from a train to a nearby convalescent hospital, and was uncertain whether she would find anyone at the railroad station to help. Therefore she had asked the two girls to accompany her. Peggy also desired to mail a letter to Ralph Marshall which might reach him before he started upon his journey.

Always Aunt Patricia was occupied outdoors from breakfast until lunch time. So in spite of the fact that Sally Ashton showed a degree of suppressed excitement both in her manner and appearance, there would seem to have been no apparent excuse. A certain timorousness once wholly unlike her, lately had appeared in Sally’s attitude.

She also had grown thinner and her big golden brown eyes had lost their sleepy expression and acquired an anxious appeal. The lines about her full, rather pouting lips were strained and apprehensive.

Having at the moment pulled a small traveling bag down from a shelf overhead and allowed it to fall on the floor, Sally did not hear the swift opening and closing of her bedroom door. Therefore, when she had secured her bag and was straightening up, she gave an exclamation of surprise on discovering her sister standing within a few feet of her.

Except that she was handsomer, Alice looked very like her mother, the Esther of the first Camp Fire days, yet she and Sally bore no possible resemblance to each other either in disposition or appearance.

Alice was tall and slender, with a grave, severe air. She wore her dark red hair parted and bound about the back of her head in a heavy braid. She was a little angular. There was a suggestion that unless life dealt generously with her, granting her the gifts which make for tenderness and softness in a woman’s nature, she might in time have the appearance one is supposed to associate with an old maid. However, old maids are as unlike as the rest of the human species.

Certainly at the present moment her expression was austere, although uneasy and distressed as well.

“What are you doing, Sally?” she inquired, her voice gentle and solicitous, yet observing that a wave of color had swept over Sally’s face even before she had spoken.

The next moment Sally flung her bag down on the floor again, answering petulantly:

“What am I doing? Well, really, Alice, I do not see what difference it makes to you, or why you should slip into our room so quietly that you frightened me. As a matter of fact, I got down my traveling bag to–to—” Sally’s voice trailed off helplessly for an instant. The next instant, gathering force, she repeated: “I pulled down my bag because I wished to store away some odds and ends which I wish to keep safely.”

Then losing her temper in a most suspicious fashion, suddenly Sally stamped her foot as if she were an angry child and at the same time her eyes grew unexpectedly dark and lovely.

“That is not what you came into this room to announce to me, Alice. So please say whatever it is you wish and be through. I am going out for a little walk before lunch.” In any event Sally was no coward!

“Then sit down. You do not look very well and I am afraid you won’t like what I must say,” Alice returned. “Understand, it gives me no pleasure; instead, I am tremendously worried and unhappy. I suppose I should have talked the situation over with Tante before she went away, but I knew it would interfere with her trip and so avoided troubling her.”

In answer to her sister’s suggestion Sally seated herself upon a tall, old-fashioned wooden chair, so that only her toes were able to reach the ground. All at once she had felt as if she would be more comfortable seated. It was not because of Alice’s suggestion that she had agreed, but because of a sudden sensation of weariness, almost of physical weakness, although this last idea seemed absurd.

Yet somehow Sally appeared so like a tired and rebellious child that her sister found it difficult to continue their conversation. However, she must introduce the accusation she had been schooling herself to make before entering the room.

“Is there anything you would like to talk to me about, Sally? Outside our daily life and work here at the farm is there anything which has been interesting you recently and which you have preferred not to mention to anybody?” Alice inquired gently, her voice shaken by her effort to hide her concern, while a fine line appeared between her level brows.

Pretending to be bored rather than affected in any other fashion by her sister’s speech, first Sally shrugged her shoulders. Then making a pretence of yawning, she placed her fingers lightly over her lips.

“Really, Alice, what on earth is troubling you in connection with me? Have you had me on your conscience more than usual recently? Can’t you ever get over your unattractive habit of treating me as if I were a refractory pupil and you an offended schoolmarm? In spite of being born in New England, there is no reason to affect this pose, as it is unnecessary and I think most unbecoming.”

Sally’s manner was a little too self-assured, but otherwise she appeared as enigmatic as an accomplished actress. Gazing at her earnestly, there was nothing in her expression at present to suggest any emotion save a natural annoyance at being catechized.

But Alice was not deceived.

“Please don’t assume such an air of offended virtue, Sally. You are far too fond of employing it when anyone reproaches you,” Alice continued, but really too sincerely disturbed to feel angered by her sister’s behavior. “Evidently you do not wish to confide in me, so I suppose there is no use wasting either your time or mine. For the past two weeks–I don’t know the exact length of time, although you are aware of it, Sally–you have been disappearing from the farm almost every day. At first I did not notice. You seem to have been careful that neither Aunt Patricia, nor Tante, nor I should know. And you have been clever. But you could not escape everybody’s observation and the other Camp Fire girls have seen you and been puzzled and at last worried to guess what you could be doing. You need not ask who the girls were; I shall not tell you. But finally several of them felt compelled to speak to me and to suggest that I ask your confidence. Oh, don’t pretend you think you have been spied upon and badly treated. You know, Sally, that unless the girls cared for you they would not have troubled? But we have lived almost as one family and our interests are bound together. Do tell me what you have been doing, dear? What has taken you away from home so many times alone? I have been watching you myself recently. When I came into our room only a few minutes ago you were preparing to slip away.”

Sally was biting her lips and had lost her childish look.

“This is not a criminal court, Alice; neither are you the public prosecutor. As a matter of fact, I refuse to answer your questions or to gratify either your curiosity or the curiosity of the Camp Fire girls. What I have been doing has harmed no one; at least I do not think it has, and I have not always been alone. Old Jean has been with me much of the time and has helped in every way. But by the time Tante returns I think I shall be free to tell her everything. Can’t you trust me until then?”

Sally’s voice and manner had suddenly changed from bravado to pleading, but Alice was too angry and too frightened to be influenced. Moreover, she was suffering from a frequent elderly sister attitude. She felt herself called upon not only to examine Sally in regard to her proceedings but to condemn her without any real evidence.

“Very well, Sally, unless you decide to confide in me immediately I shall be obliged to speak to Aunt Patricia.”

At the conclusion of this speech Alice beheld in her sister’s face the expression of sheer unrelenting obstinacy in which Sally was an adept. It was a contradiction to her pretty softness, her indolent manner and even to the elusive dimple which recently had vanished.

“I also warn you, Sally, that I intend to watch you and find out your proceedings for myself. In truth, I am frightened about you. If only Tante were here she could influence you, but Aunt Patricia will only become bitterly angry. I confess I don’t know what she will say or do when she learns that I have no choice but to tell her.”

If Alice Ashton had one characteristic which predominated over all others, it was a fine sense of honor, a high ideal of personal integrity.

As a matter of fact, she had never demanded the same standards from Sally she had asked of herself. It was a family custom to regard her younger sister as a person chiefly to be gratified and adored. Yet it had never occurred to Alice that Sally could fail in any essential thing such as straightforwardness and sincerity.

“I don’t like to speak to you, Sally, or even to suggest the idea, but I am afraid a few of the girls may be criticizing what you are doing in a fashion you can scarcely imagine. They do not speak before me, but I can hardly fail to guess what they are thinking from their manner. Sally, can’t you realize that we are in a foreign country where the language, the customs, the ideas are not like ours? Even if what you are doing might not be considered wrong at home, can’t you see that here in France you may be misunderstood? Please confide in me dear. You promised—”

But Sally’s soft shoulders stiffened in resistance.

“Evidently you do not trust me yourself, Alice, and naturally your opinion is more important to me than anyone’s else. Yet when one has lived with the same people a long time one does expect a certain amount of faith and understanding. I am sorry, for I cannot tell you what you wish to know at present. I may be able to in a very few days, if you will be good enough to wait and not speak to Aunt Patricia. It is hardly worth while to make a difficulty between us! Personally I am glad Tante is away; at least, I am glad she is away today, since it would have been more difficult to refuse my confidence to her than to any one else. But I shall regret it if I am able to make my confession before her return. She at least would have tried to believe I have not intended to do anything wrong. Now please leave me alone, Alice. You were right, I am going out on an important errand. You need not worry over my going alone this time, because old Jean has promised to go with me as soon as he is free and I shall wait for him.”

Then, although Alice lingered for several moments longer, when Sally would neither speak to her, nor look at her, she slowly left the room.

Afterwards when Alice had disappeared Sally’s pretence of courage vanished and she sat with her hands clasped tightly together while the tears ran down her face.

All very well to pretend to Alice that she was convinced she had been doing no wrong. But was this true? In the end would she not have to pay dearly in the continuing condemnation and distrust of her friends? When her confession was finally made, would they even then understand and forgive her?

CHAPTER XV
THE DISCOVERY

More than once within the hour of waiting before she and Jean could slip away, Sally concluded to abandon her plan and never go near the château again, regardless of results. Then she remembered that she had given her word and that upon this visit many things were to be explained and arranged. Having endured so much of struggle, strain and suspicion, one must not fail in the end. And in spite of Sally’s apparent indolence and softness, failure had no part in her mental make-up.

Yet in being compelled to spend an hour of watching before daring to make her escape there was a sense of humiliation, almost of degradation. Nevertheless, what else could she do except wait until Alice was again absorbed in her teaching and until there was no one about the farm house or in the yard who would pay any especial attention to her actions?

Sally’s final misfortune was in encountering Yvonne as she passed through the hall downstairs.

It may have been her imagination, due to her conversation with her sister. Sally felt almost convinced that Yvonne shrank away from her as she passed, almost as if she were drawing her skirts aside. In return Sally suffered a wave of indignation and the conviction that she would never be able to forgive Yvonne. She even had an impulse some day to avenge the other girl’s injustice.

She and Jean did not immediately move off in the direction of the château. She and old Jean took an entirely opposite direction, until in a field about half a mile away, altering their course, they walked rapidly toward the château. Sally never ceased to gaze behind them every few moments, fearing they might be followed.

Small wonder that with the unaccustomed walks and the burden of a serious responsibility Sally Ashton had altered in the past few weeks!

Indeed, her only solace had been the loyal faith and allegiance which the old French peasant, Jean, had given to her cause and to her.

From the first day, when in halting and broken French she had begged him to accompany her to the château to assist in the care of a wounded soldier, he had not asked a question or refused his services.

When it was impossible for him to escape Miss Patricia’s vigilance at the hour Sally asked, she always found that he had managed to make the trip sometime later, during the day or night, and accomplished what was necessary. What he may have thought of the situation, what questions he may have asked himself behind the inscrutability of his weather-beaten countenance with its misty, coal-black eyes, Sally never inquired. There were enough problems to meet without this. The important fact was that Jean never failed her and that he made an otherwise impossible task possible.

After discovering the serious illness of the wounded soldier in hiding, Sally Ashton had continued the amazing task of caring for him at the château.

She did not come to this decision immediately; indeed, it had grown so slowly that at times it did not appear as a decision at all. Nor did Sally attempt to justify herself. She felt compelled to take a courageous attitude with her sister, but she never had been convinced of her own patriotism or good sense. Even up to the present time she was not sure of the nationality of her patient, although it had been a relief that during his delirium he had spoken occasionally in French.

The truth is that as the days passed on and Sally’s responsibility increased her attitude toward the soldier changed. At first she had been annoyed, bored with the entire adventure and with the circumstances resulting from it. But as the young man’s illness became more alarming and Sally’s anxiety increased, a new characteristic awoke in her. Sally Ashton belonged to the type of girl who is essentially maternal. She would be one of the large group of women who love, marry and bring up a family and are nearly always adored by their husbands, but feel no passionate affection until the coming of their children.

So unconsciously the wounded soldier’s dependence upon her for food and attention, for life itself, aroused Sally’s motherly instinct, although she did not dream of the fact and would have been angry at the suggestion.

One convincing proof. In the beginning she had been both physically and mentally repelled by the soiled and blood-stained soldier and by his confused confession. She had not surrendered him to justice because she did not feel called upon to appear as the arbiter of any human being’s fate and because she had not the dramatic instinct of most girls. But Sally had presumed the soldier would be arrested later and was not particularly concerned with his future one way or the other.

Now her point of view had completely altered. At first her idea was merely that the soldier should recover with no other nursing save that which she and old Jean could bestow upon him. But now that he was recovering, she was equally determined he should be saved from whatever enemy he had feared before being delivered into her hands.

Before parting on the previous afternoon Sally had agreed with her patient that they discuss his situation on her next visit to the château.

As the old man and girl crept cautiously inside the opening between the arch of walls, they could see their soldier lying asleep upon his mattress, but between clean sheets and covered with blankets which Sally had managed to secure from the supply at the farm.

The half-dismantled room was cold but fragrant with the odors of the woods and fields. Perhaps the fresh air which had at all times flooded the odd sick-room had been in a measure responsible for the ill man’s recovery, having taken the place of other comforts he had been obliged to forego.

He opened his eyes at the approach of his two friends and looked a little wistfully at Sally.

“You have come at last! I was afraid you would not be able to manage. How kind you have been!”

Sally made no reply except to offer him a glass of milk and to stand silently by until he had finished drinking it.

She looked very sweet. Today her walk and the excitement of her morning had tired her so that she was paler than usual; yet her lips were full and crimson and her brown hair had a charming fashion of curling in little brown rings on her forehead as if she were a tiny child.

The soldier no longer wore any look of mental confusion except that his expression was puzzled and questioning.

“You are much better. I am glad,” Sally said at last. “You see I do not know how often I can come to the château after today, unless you should become very ill again and then I would come in any case.”

Sally’s direct fashion of speaking had its value amid the complexities of human relations.

Old Jean had disappeared to bring fresh water and to accomplish other tasks so that Sally and the soldier were alone for a little time.

As a matter of fact, Jean’s had been the really difficult nursing. Night after night when the soldier’s condition had been most critical Jean had made no pretence of going to bed, but had hobbled over at bedtime to remain until dawn by the ill man’s side.

“Perhaps you will sit down for a little so that I can ask you a great many questions,” the soldier suggested. “Now that I am getting back my senses, you can scarcely imagine what a mystery my present situation is.”

Nodding agreement, Sally drew a beautiful French chair across the strange drawing-room and seated herself within a few feet of her patient’s bed. It was odd that she had never felt any fear of the old walls tumbling down upon her from the hour she had begun her nursing, although before that time she had believed nothing could force her to trust herself inside the ruins.

“I would like to ask you to begin at the beginning. In what condition and how long ago did you find me here? If I could only guess the time! But I am under the impression I have not been myself for several weeks until these last few days. Yet I have a vague recollection of finding my way to this old house and of seeing you standing one day framed in that open arch. After that I have no memory of anything else until I became conscious of your face and of old Jean’s bending over me and then of this extraordinary place. If I have been ill, why have I not been cared for in a hospital?

“I remember escaping from the Germans who had taken me prisoner and then wandering, wandering about in a country where there were no trees, no grass, no houses, nothing but the upturned earth and exploded shells. Afterwards I was not sure I had reached the French country. I know I used to hide in the day time and prowl around at night. I think I must have become ill soon after my escape, because I have an indistinct impression that I was trying to find my old home, the château where I lived before the outbreak of the war. I suppose that is one reason why I hid myself in here. But nothing I can remember explains you.”

Sally sighed.

“I do not understand what you are talking about, at least not exactly. I am not even convinced you do. But if you really are a French soldier and managed to escape from the Germans, I am glad. I know you will think me stupid, but still how could I have been expected to understand that you were a French soldier when you seemed so horribly afraid of being discovered? You were in your own country and among your own people! Personally there is very little for me to tell about myself.

“I am an American girl, I don’t suppose you consider me French, and I am living at a farm house not far away with some American friends. One day I was taking a walk and just from curiosity slipped over here to look more closely at the château. It frightened me when I discovered you were hiding in here. You can never guess how you startled me! At our first meeting you told me some mixed-up story and asked me to bring you some food. I thought you were an escaped prisoner and I did not want to have anything to do with you. But you insisted if you were caught you would be hung. The next day when I arrived with the food you were too ill to recognize me. There is nothing more to tell.”

“That is all,” the soldier repeated. “But that sounds more like the beginning, does it not? You were not even sure of my nationality and yet you have been coming here every day to care for me. Suppose I had been your enemy?”

By this time the soldier was sitting up and intently studying the face of the girl before him. He was wearing a faded dark blue shirt which Jean had generously bestowed upon him the day before, this being the first occasion for which he had made an effort to dress himself.

“Strange human beings, women! I wonder if we men will ever understand you? I have no doubt you would blow up the united armies of the Central Empires if it were possible without a qualm and yet you would make any sacrifice to save the life of one prisoner.”

“But I was never convinced about you,” Sally apologized. “Then after you became so seriously ill I never thought. But I am sure I beg your pardon. As you are a Frenchman of course you would have been infinitely better cared for in a hospital. If anything had happened to you it would have been my fault. But really I did not know what was done to prisoners who ran away from their captors and you suggested such an uncomfortable fate for yourself.

“Now you are better I don’t think I will come back to the château again. You see you made me promise not to tell anyone that you were hiding here, and my sister and friends think it strange because I have been spending so much time away from the farm recently. I don’t suppose I shall ever be able to make anyone understand. It is hard, isn’t it, to be blamed for things and then find they have been of no use? Jean will do whatever is necessary for you until you are entirely well. He can bring me news of you and he will take a message to anyone you care to see if you do not feel strong enough to be moved to a hospital immediately.”

Sally rose as if she meant to leave at once, then something in her companion’s expression made her sink down into her chair.

“No, you must not come to see me again,” he answered, “although I shall wish to see no one else. Perhaps it will not be long before I am able to call upon your friends if you will allow me. I am stronger than you realize; but you have not told me what you are doing in this neighborhood.”

Unexpectedly Sally had a remarkable sensation. It was as if suddenly her position and the soldier’s changed and as if he had begun to think of her welfare rather than to have her devote herself to his.

“Oh, we are doing reclamation work,” Sally returned; “that is, my sister and friends are. I have not accomplished anything that is important. I told you I was stupid.”

All at once Sally’s soldier broke into a peal of clear boyish laughter which was of more benefit to him than either of them appreciated.

“No, you have done nothing except save my life. It is not kind of you under the circumstances to announce you consider it unimportant. Some day when I am able to rejoin my regiment perhaps I may be able to prove your work worth while. Thanks to you, perhaps I shall again serve France as I have never served her before! The enemy has taken from me everything else, my mother, my sister, my little brother and my home. I made up my mind that they should not hold me a prisoner whatever might befall me. If I had to give up my life I meant to die in the open.”

Then more excited and exhausted than either he or Sally had appreciated, the soldier lay down again, closing his eyes.

It was a part of Sally’s recent training which made her continue sitting quietly beside him for the next few moments without speaking or moving.

In the interval she studied the soldier’s face.

For the first time he was appearing to her as a man. Up until now he had simply been a human being who must be cared for, allowed to suffer as little as possible and at last be restored to health.

In considering him at present Sally did not particularly admire his appearance. She thought his nose was rather too large and his lips too thin and in spite of Jean’s devotion, his services as a barber left a good deal to be desired.

“Your arm is nearly well, still I think I should like to bandage it once more before I go,” Sally suggested. “You do not realize it, of course, but I have learned a great deal about nursing since I began to look after you. I don’t like sick people, else I suppose I could become a Red Cross nurse after more training if I wished. But I don’t think I should like the work.”

As Sally talked she was accomplishing her task, certainly with a good deal more skill than she had shown several weeks before.

However, her patient was not conscious of the fact. At present he was not thinking of his wound but of his nurse.

There was something about her so deliciously frank and ingenuous. At least she seemed ingenuous to him, although it was difficult always to be sure concerning Sally.

When she had finished the young Frenchman took one of her hands and touched it lightly with his lips.

“Will you tell me your name, please, and where to find you before you say farewell? I am Lieutenant Robert Fleury of the French-cuirassiers.”

Ten minutes later Sally was walking back home alone to the farm house, having left Jean to continue to care for their patient.

She was not to go back to the château again and she was to tell her friends exactly what had taken place in the past few weeks. She seemed to have promised this to her patient.

Yet Sally was not sure when she would tell her story. She had no desire to make a confession to Alice, and Aunt Patricia was not to be considered. If only she might arrange to wait until Mrs. Burton’s return from her journey into southern France.

CHAPTER XVI
AN UNEXPECTED SHELTER

“Will you come with me, please, to Aunt Patricia’s room?” she began at once. “I have been talking to Aunt Patricia and she says it is only fair that we should hear your explanation before passing judgment. I have spoken to no one else, although I suppose it will be impossible to hide the facts from the other girls. In reality, I believe they already have guessed a great deal and have been trying to keep the truth from me.”

At the moment of her sister’s entrance Sally had been slipping into a little blue dressing gown which had been her mother’s final gift the day before their parting. The dressing gown did not have a utilitarian appearance, since it was made of a soft blue, light woolen material with little clusters of yellow roses scattered over the design and with blue ribbons and lace about the throat and sleeves.

In response to her sister’s speech Sally gathered about her the dressing gown, which she had not yet fastened, and immediately started to leave the room.

“I shall be very glad indeed to talk to Aunt Patricia, but not to you, Alice, nor do I ever intend to forgive you. I suppose you followed old Jean and me to the château and have drawn your own inference from what you observed. Do you know, Alice, I have often wondered why the puritanical conscience is always so suspicious of other people?” And in this last speech of Sally’s there was more of truth that she could fully appreciate.

But if in this final analysis she were speaking the truth, the first part of her remark had been a complete falsehood. At the present time there was nothing she desired so little as being forced into making her confession to Miss Patricia Lord, a severe spinster with no consideration for human folly. Would any one else on earth be more difficult or more unrelenting?

In the past hour or more, following her conversation at the château, Sally had been facing one of the hardest experiences of life.

Her weeks of self-sacrifice and devotion had been not only unnecessary, they had been absurd. If only she could have enjoyed the inward satisfaction of considering herself a heroine or a martyr! But she had risked her own reputation and the young French officer’s life to what end?

As the two girls entered Miss Patricia’s room, Sally, accompanied by her sister, whose existence on earth she refused to recognize, considered that Miss Patricia appeared as implacable as a stone image. Yet one could scarcely compare her to the Sphinx. That ancient stone figure with the head of a woman and the body of a lioness looks as if she had devoted the many centuries since her creation to solving the riddles of human life.

Miss Patricia would consider anything but plain speaking a sheer waste of energy and truth. There were no riddles in Miss Patricia’s mental category.

Nevertheless, Miss Patricia’s voice did not sound unkind when she suggested that Sally occupy the solitary chair in her bedroom, although undoubtedly this would leave the elderly woman standing as well as Alice. But then Sally did not realize how appealing her appearance was at this moment even to so harsh a critic of human nature.

Sally indolent, Sally dreaming her own small and rather selfish dreams, or a Sally self-assured and self-content were not unfamiliar figures to her world. But Sally confused and tired, hurt and bewildered, not by her own actions or any one’s else, but by a web of circumstance, was a new study.

“No, I would prefer not to sit down, Miss Patricia, and in any case I would not have you stand,” Sally answered, still with an innate sense of her own dignity and value which at no time in her life was she ever wholly to lose. “Alice seems to have told you some disagreeable story about me. So I think it just as well for me to tell you the exact truth. I hope I can make you understand. I suppose I should have confided in some one before, but until a few hours ago I did not feel that I had the privilege.”

Sally’s golden brown eyes with the heavy upcurling lashes, which gave to her face the expression of unusual softness, were now gazing upward into Miss Patricia’s. The latter’s eyes were gallant also and steadfast, nor did Sally find them so distrustful as she had anticipated.

“Very well, my dear, go on with your story. I thought Alice was too much excited,” Miss Patricia returned, seating herself in her upright chair, as Sally seemed to prefer her to be seated.

Then with her little dressing gown wrapped about her as if it had been a Roman toga, Sally told the history of the past weeks, her unexpected discovery of the wounded soldier amid the ruins of the old French château, her belief that he was a runaway prisoner and notwithstanding this, her effort, with Jean’s assistance, to restore him to health.

Sally’s explanation was less confused than her conversation with the French soldier a short time before. However, since that hour many things had become clearer in her own mind. She did not break down until her story was completed and only then when she turned toward her sister.

“I don’t know, Alice, what you and the other Camp Fire girls have been thinking of me, and I don’t believe I care to guess. I know you have not been generous. But since I don’t wish to discuss the subject with any one save Aunt Patricia, and with Tante of course when she returns, I wish you would offer the other girls any interpretation of my behavior you care to give.”

At this Sally’s voice broke in spite of her efforts at self-control. When Alice made a step toward her with her arms outstretched to ask forgiveness, Sally stepped back only to find herself enfolded by Miss Patricia and to hear Miss Patricia declare:

“I think it would be wiser, Alice, for you to leave Sally and me alone for a little time; she is tired and unstrung. If you and the other girls have been unfair, you will have an opportunity to apologize later. Then Sally herself will feel more inclined to be reasonable.”

Afterwards, when Alice had reluctantly disappeared, unexpectedly Sally found herself seated as if she were a child in Aunt Patricia’s lap and listening to a very wise and tender conversation, one she was never to forget, from a woman of deep and broad experience.

When she grew less disturbed Aunt Patricia made no effort not to scold Sally for her unwisdom and her lack of reliance upon older judgment than her own. But the great fact was that Aunt Patricia was never unfair, that she had no sentimental suspicions and made no accusations with which Sally could not fairly agree.

In their half hour together Sally Ashton learned to appreciate for the rest of her life Aunt Patricia’s value, learned to understand why Mrs. Burton cared for her so devotedly and considered her a tower of strength in adversity. In this uncertain world in which we live there are fair weather and foul weather friends. Miss Patricia belonged to the number who not only fail to strike other people when they are down, but who spend all their energy and strength in the effort to lift them up again.

Later on the other Camp Fire girls were also to form a new estimate of Miss Patricia’s character, but simply by force of circumstance Sally was the first one of them to be admitted inside the stern citadel with which the elderly spinster surrounded her great heart.

“In the morning, Sally, when you have rested, and if I were you, child, I would spend this afternoon in bed, why I intend to walk over with you to your château and make the acquaintance of your soldier. If he is a gentleman my dear, or even if he is a real man, I mean to bring him here to the farm house to remain as our guest until he has completely recovered. Now, don’t argue with me, Sally. Mrs. Burton will tell you that I am a hopeless old woman with whom to have an argument. I simply never do any one’s way except my own. I do not wish to discuss this side of the situation with you to any extent, but don’t you see, my dear, that it is better for you that we have your soldier here? No one shall think your friends have not understood and approved of your care of this young Frenchman.”

Sally murmured her acquiescence and her gratitude. Yet suddenly she felt that she wished never again to see the young officer who for the past few weeks had been her constant thought and care.

He had recovered sufficiently no longer to need her services and although he was not wilfully responsible, nevertheless he had given her a great deal of care and trouble.

“Of course you must do what you think best, Aunt Patricia,” Sally added a moment later, as she was preparing to start to her own room. “But don’t you think we had best wait until Tante’s return?”

Aunt Patricia shook her head.

“What Polly Burton may think or desire in the matter will not have the slightest influence with me. She cheerfully surrendered you girls into my charge in order to make this trip, of which she knew I thoroughly disapproved. However, in spite of the fact that I am very angry with her, I do not wish any one else to feel uneasy, although I shall not have a happy moment until she returns.”

CHAPTER XVII
TWO OFFICERS

Toward late afternoon on the day after Sally’s enforced confession, accompanied only by Old Jean, Miss Patricia Lord had tramped across the fields to the French château and had there interviewed its inmate with a directness and a searchlight quality worthy of a public prosecutor.

As a result she had received more valuable information than Sally Ashton had acquired in the hour of their mutual and confused avowal. Among other things Miss Patricia had learned that the wounded officer’s extraordinary outfit was due to the fact that he believed it would make his escape more feasible.

But whatever the details of his story, he was able to inspire Miss Patricia with sufficient interest and faith to admit him as a temporary guest at the farm house in spite of the absence of Mrs. Burton.

However, although undoubtedly a guest, he was a guest according to rules and restrictions laid down and adhered to by Miss Patricia and her household.

In the first place, until he had completely recovered he was to remain in his room at the farm house, cared for only by old Jean with occasional visits from Miss Patricia. Under no circumstances was he to see or meet for the present a single one of the Camp Fire girls. This rule was particularly to be observed with regard to Sally Ashton.

Miss Patricia made no effort to conceal her intention of making a thorough investigation of the account of his life the French officer had imparted to her. She knew it would not be so difficult to verify his statements. It was possible to communicate with the commander of his regiment and also his friends, as he claimed to have lived in the French country not many miles away from their neighborhood in the valley of the Aisne. After his recovery doubtless he would be able to find a number of his former acquaintances by returning to his old home.

It was in his favor that the French officer entirely agreed with Miss Patricia’s attitude in every particular save one. But he was wise enough not to argue with her concerning this. In truth, thirty-six hours after his installation at the farm house, the young Frenchman and Miss Patricia had become surprisingly intimate friends. One could explain this by stating that the officer had a delightful sense of humor and a valuable appreciation of character. Miss Patricia announced that no friendship could have been possible between them if Lieutenant Fleury’s mother had not had the good sense to have him taught English by an English governess when he was a small boy. His accent Miss Patricia considered as peculiar as her own French one, nevertheless they were able to understand each other amazingly well.

One brilliant morning Miss Patricia entered the French officer’s room bearing a cup of bouillon to find him staring out a window which he had just opened in order to let in the air and for another purpose which Miss Patricia instantly suspected.

“Breaking parole,” she commented tersely.

The young officer had not heard her entrance. In return he swung round and laughed.

“Is that fair, Miss Lord? A cat may look at a king, comme cá why not at a number of queens? Besides, don’t you realize it is a miracle for a French soldier to be able to dream that these devastated fields of France are soon to become green and fruitful again? Having lost everything in the early days of the German invasion, my family, home, my small fortune, nevertheless I rejoice that for other French soldiers there may be a happier future when they return to their former homes, thanks to the great hearts of the American people!”

The young officer’s deep feeling and his quiet self-contained manner caused a lump to rise in Miss Patricia’s throat and a mist before her eyes. Therefore her manner became more belligerent than ever.

“Here, sit down and drink this,” she commanded. “I suppose you consider that you have entirely recovered your strength and that I am the veriest old termagant not to permit you to enjoy your convalescence with a group of more or less charming American girls. But as a matter of fact I am really protecting you as well as the girls. We have lived without masculine society, unless you wish to count old Jean, ever since our arrival at the farm house. So whatever your impression, I am afraid you would soon be overpowered with attention once I allowed you to leave this room.”

Lieutenant Fleury finished his bouillon with a proper degree of gratitude and enthusiasm before replying.

Afterwards he gazed at Miss Patricia for several moments in silence as if carefully considering a number of important matters.

The young French officer was of more than medium height, had dark eyes and hair, and except when he was talking, his expression was grave and sad. His arm remained bandaged.

“Miss Patricia, I do not wish to meet all your Camp Fire girls. I agree with you I am not strong enough to make myself agreeable to them. But I do wish to see one of them again. You are aware that I mean Miss Ashton. If ever a man had cause to be grateful to a girl—-”

“Nonsense!” Miss Patricia interrupted, picking up the empty cup as if she were intending to leave the room immediately. “Sally was a goose and ran the risk of being the death of you instead of saving your life as you like to think. Besides, she has not the slightest desire to see you; she told me this herself. She feels now that she was ridiculous. She should never have paid any attention to the disjointed tale of an ill man, or to the promise which you seem to have exacted of the poor child in your original interview. As for being grateful to Sally, that is also a waste of energy when you have none too much to spare. The one dream of every girl in the world these days is to be allowed the privilege of caring for a good-looking soldier. Sally had her opportunity under particularly romantic and nonsensical circumstances. Besides, men will always be grateful to Sally Ashton for something or other as long as she lives, grateful because she is pretty and soft and selfish and, dear me, I suppose she is what one calls essentially feminine! I confess I have rather a tender feeling toward the child myself.”

And without further answer to his request Miss Patricia hurriedly departed.

Outdoors at the same time Sally was occupied in the garden digging in a desultory fashion. As soon as there was no further danger of the ground freezing the Camp Fire girls were planning to plant a garden.

Sally was alone at her task and alone because she preferred solitude.

After her fantastic escapade had been disclosed to the other Camp Fire girls, those of them who had been particularly annoyed by her mysterious behavior were frankly regretful of their condemnation. They did not whole-heartedly approve of what she had done, but no one doubted Sally’s good intention or the unselfishness of her motive. Aside from Yvonne, whose attitude continued puzzled and distrustful, each girl individually had approached Sally with a carefully veiled apology. However, Sally, who was not in a friendly state of mind toward the world at present, received their advances coldly.

The only two persons whose opinion she really valued were Aunt Patricia’s and Mrs. Burton’s. Aunt Patricia had been kinder and more understanding than any human being could have dreamed possible. Mrs. Burton had not yet returned from her journey into southern France. Indeed, no word had been heard from her in a number of days, so that not alone did Aunt Patricia suffer from uneasiness. The great German drive so long expected was fanning the long line of the French battlefront into fiercer and more terrorizing flames. At any hour the greatest struggle in human history would once more burst upon the world.