So far the road had been deserted.  Now they had come up to a stream of traffic flowing slowly toward the Front.  Armored cars, looking tall and top-heavy, rumbled and jolted along.  Many lorries, one limousine containing a general, a few Paris buses, all smeared a dingy gray and filled with French soldiers, numberless and nondescript open machines, here and there a horse-drawn vehicle—­these filled the road.  In and out among them Jean threaded his way, while Sara Lee grew crimson with the effort to see it all, and Henri sat very stiff and silent.

At a crossroads they were halted by troops who had fallen out for a rest.  The men stood at ease, and stared their fill at Sara Lee.  Save for a few weary peasants, most of them had seen no women for months.  But they were respectful, if openly admiring.  And their admiration of her was nothing to Sara Lee’s feeling toward them.  She loved them all—­boys with their first straggly beards on their chins; older men, looking worn and tired; French and Belgian; smiling and sad.  But most of all, for Uncle James’ sake, she loved the Belgians.

“I cannot tell you,” she said breathlessly to Henri.  “It is like a dream come true.  And I shall help.  You look doubtful sometimes, but I am sure.”

“You are heaven sent,” Henri replied gravely.

They turned into a crossroad after a time, and there in a little village Sara Lee found her new home.  A strange village indeed, unoccupied and largely destroyed.  Piles of bricks and plaster lined the streets.  Broken glass was everywhere.  Jean blew out a tire finally, because of the glass, and they were obliged to walk the remainder of the way.

“A poor place, mademoiselle,” Henri said as they went along.  “A peaceful little town, and quite beautiful, once.  And it harbored no troops.  But everything is meat for the mouths of their guns.”

Sara Lee stopped and looked about her.  Her heart was beating fast, but her lips were steady enough.

“And it is here that I—­”

“A little distance down the street.  You must see before you decide.”

Steady, passionless firing was going on, not near, but far away, like low thunder before a summer storm.  She was for months to live, to eat and sleep and dream to that rumbling from the Ypres salient, to waken when it ceased or to look up from her work at the strange silence.  But it was new to her then, and terrible.

“Do they still shell this—­this town?” she asked, rather breathlessly.

“Not now.  They have done their work.  Of course—­” he did not finish.

Sara Lee’s heart slowed down somewhat.  After all, she had asked to be near the Front.  And that meant guns and such destruction as was all about her.  Only one thing troubled her.

“It is rather far from the trenches, isn’t it?”

He smiled slightly.

“Far!  It is not very far.  Not so far as I would wish, mademoiselle.  But, to do what you desire, it is the best I have to offer.”