They sent him on at last, and Sara Lee was free to tell Henri her news.  But she had grown very wise as to Henri’s moods, and she hesitated.  A certain dissatisfaction had been growing in the boy for some time, a sense of hopelessness.  Further along the spring had brought renewed activity to the Allied armies.  Great movements were taking place.

But his own men stood in their trenches, or what passed for trenches, or lay on their hours of relief in such wretched quarters as could be found, still with no prospect of action.  No great guns, drawn by heavy tractors, came down the roads toward the trenches by the sea.  Steady bombarding, incessant sniping and no movement on either side—­that was the Belgian Front during the first year of the war.  Inaction, with that eating anxiety as to what was going on in the occupied territory, was the portion of the heroic small army that stretched from Nieuport to Dixmude.

And Henri’s nerves were not good.  He was unhappy—­that always—­and he was not yet quite recovered from his wounds.  There was on his mind, too, a certain gun which moved on a railway track, back and forth, behind the German lines, doing the work of many.  He had tried to get to that gun, and failed.  And he hated failure.

Certainly in this story of Sara Lee and of Henri, whose other name must not be known, allowance must be made for all those things.  Yet—­perhaps no allowance is enough.

Sara Lee told him that evening of her recall, told him when the shuffling of many feet in the street told of the first weary men from the trenches coming up the road.

He heard her in a dazed silence.  Then: 

“But you will not go?” he said.  “It is impossible!  You—­you are needed, mademoiselle.”

“What can I do, Henri?  They have recalled me.  My money will not come now.”

“Perhaps we can arrange that.  It does not cost so much.  I have friends —­and think, mademoiselle, how many know now of what you are doing, and love you for it.  Some of them would contribute, surely.”

He was desperately revolving expedients in his mind.  He could himself do no more than he had done.  He, or rather Jean and he together, had been bearing a full half of the expense of the little house since the beginning.  But he dared not tell her that.  And though he spoke hopefully, he knew well that he could raise nothing from the Belgians he knew best.  Henri came of a class that held its fortunes in land, and that land was now in German hands.

“We will arrange it somehow,” he said with forced cheerfulness.  “No beautiful thing—­and this is surely beautiful—­must die because of money.”

It was then that Sara Lee took the plunge.

“It is not only money, Henri.”

“He has sent for you!”

Harvey was always “he” to Henri.

“Not exactly.  But I think he went to some one and said I should not be here alone.  You can understand how he feels.  We were going to be married very soon, and then I decided to come.  It made an awful upset.”