So, on a cold spring day, she sat down at the table in the salle a manger and wrote a letter to the President, beginning “Dear Sir”; and telling what she knew of poison gas.  She also, on second thought, wrote one to Andrew Carnegie, who had built a library in her city.  She felt that the expense to him of sending some one over to investigate would not be prohibitive, and something must be done.

She never heard from either of her letters, but she felt better for having written them.  And a day or two later she received from Mrs. Travers, in England, a small supply of the first gas masks of the war.  Simple and primitive they were, those first masks; useless, too, as it turned out—­a square of folded gauze, soaked in some solution and then dried, with tapes to tie it over the mouth and nose.  To adjust them the soldiers had but to stoop and wet them in the ever-present water in the trench, and then to tie them on.

Sara Lee gave them out that night, and there was much mirth in the little house, such mirth as there had not been since Henri went away.  The Belgians called it a bal masque, and putting them on bowed before one another and requested dances, and even flirted coyly with each other over their bits of white gauze.  And in the very middle of the gayety some one propounded one of Henri’s idiotic riddles; and Sara Lee went across to her little room and closed the door and stood there with her eyes shut, for fear she would scream.

Then, one day, coming out of the little church, she saw the low broken gray car turn in at the top of the street and come slowly, so very slowly, toward her.  There were two men in it.

One was Henri.

She ran, stumbling because of tears, up the street.  It was Henri!  There was no mistake.  There he sat beside Jean, brushed and very neat; and very, very white.

“Mademoiselle!” he said, and came very close to crying himself when he saw her face.  He was greatly excited.  His sunken eyes devoured her as she ran toward him.  Almost he held out his arms.  But he could not do that, even if he would, for one was bandaged to his side.

It is rather sad to record how many times Sara Lee wept during her amazing interlude.  For here is another time.  She wept for joy and wretchedness.  She stood on the running board and cried and smiled.  And Jean winked his one eye rapidly.

“This idiot, mademoiselle,” he said gruffly, “this maniac—­he would not remain in Calais, with proper care.  He must come on here.  And rapidly.  Could he have taken the wheel from me we should have been here an hour ago.  But for once I have an advantage.”

The car jolted to the little house, and Jean helped Henri out.  Such a strange Henri, smiling and joyous, and walking at a crawl, even with Jean’s support.  He protested violently against being put to bed, and when he found himself led into Sara Lee’s small room he openly rebelled.