Two shirts remained to be strapped. Setting to work one Sunday, she found her chemise was gone. She had used all its stuff. Her impulse, of course, was to purchase a piece of fresh linen. Without a thought she would have done so, but for his idle words. As it was. . . . The temptation was frightful. Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they could. . . . Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen she wore. . . . Well, _what—if—there—was_? She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk. The next morning she bought some new linen. . . . She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise. The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of 1916. Madeleine began to wonder . . . wonder why he did not appear. When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office. She did not get far. “You are his wife?” said the clerk. “Yes.” “What is his regiment?” “I do not know. He has never told me.” “Show me a letter of his.” “I have none. He never writes.” “Nor you to him?” “Never. He was sergeant, I think.” Two shoulders were shrugged. “So are many. You are sure you are married?” “Of course.” “Well, then, Madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have heard, certainly. There is no doubt about it. Calm yourself, Madame. He will come back.” But Lacaze did not come. Again, in June, she went to the War Office. She saw the same clerk. He asked the same questions, shrugged the same shoulders, gave her the same reply. . . . That Autumn her orders fell off. People, I suppose, were beginning to sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find work for two days a week. The Marats—the people she lodged with—saw what was coming, and, meeting her trouble half-way, diverted it from their path. In a word, they gave her notice. This, thanks to their foresight, they were able to do without any compunction at all. It would not have been nice to turn out a soldier’s wife—possibly ‘relict’—because she could not pay her way. As it was, they could look the world in the face. They did so defiantly. They also cancelled, with sighs, their subscription to an orphanage on the ground that they had lost a valuable paying guest. . . . . Madeleine entered the service of an English officer’s wife. Early in 1918 she received a letter from Jean. _Dearest Madeleine_,