me. She was the widow of a colonel who had
been wounded in an early battle, and killed almost
immediately after his return to duty. Before
the war this woman had lived in a charming apartment near the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, the
most expensive quarter of Paris. Like many
army officers her husband had spent all of his in.
come. Now with her child, a nine year old boy,
she lived in a single garret room, sewing, by odd
jobs striving to maintain the shadow of a home.
From the deep frame of mourning her sorrowful face glowed with that pride that has made all
Frenchwomen, to an extent, resemble each other.
She spoke almost at once, as if there were no
other subject worth talking about, of her husband
and the manner of his death.
"I was so happy when he came back with his wound for that little time, and when he went I thought the good Lord would let him return again. When they killed him he wasn't painfully hurt, but, you see, the great artery in his thigh was cut. He understood, of course; but his men were in a bad place, so he had them prop him up, and he directed the defence and sent a message to me while he bled to death, knowing all the time, until the light faded—"
She shook her head.
"He shouldn't have gone that way. If Doc-
