“Nothing better could have happened,” she was of opinion. “It means that their hearts are in it.” After a while, her eyes opened. Joan drew her chair nearer and slipped her arm in under her, and their eyes met.!

The other was a young priest. He wore the regulation Red Cross uniform, but kept his cassock hanging on a peg behind his bed. He had pretty frequent occasion to take it down. These small emergency hospitals, within range of the guns, were reserved for only dangerous cases: men whose wounds would not permit of their being carried further; and there never was much more than a sporting chance of saving them. They were always glad to find there was a priest among the staff. Often it was the first question they would ask on being lifted out of the ambulance. Even those who professed to no religion seemed comforted by the idea. He went by the title of “Monsieur le Prêtre:” Joan never learned his name. It was he who had laid out the little cemetery on the opposite side of the village street. It had once been an orchard, and some of the trees were still standing. In the centre, rising out of a pile of rockwork, he had placed a crucifix that had been found upon the roadside and had surrounded it with flowers. It formed the one bright spot of colour in the village; and at night time, when all other sounds were hushed, the iron wreaths upon its little crosses, swaying against one another in the wind, would make a low, clear, tinkling music. Joan would sometimes lie awake listening to it. In some way she could not explain it always brought the thought of children to her mind. They neither spoke again till they came to the bridge, from the other side of which the busses started.

“You haven’t seen me,” came at last in a thin, broken voice. She had been busy at her machine when Joan had entered; and a pile of delicate white work lay folded on a chair beside her. “Tell me,” he said, “did you see your mother before she died. Did she speak to you?”