“You mean you didn’t tell me all you knew about De Trevenac?” “No; I told you everything I knew! Oh, I wouldn’t have held back any of that. I mean, I haven’t done all I might; you see, I never imagined anything like this could happen.” “What might you have done, Cynthia?” he asked. He had said to her that time in the parlor on the Rue des Saints Pères that she had come to do more than mere relief work; but he had not consistently thought of her as engaged in that more daring work against which he had warned her. “I got so wrapt up in the work at Mirevaux,” she said, avoiding direct answer. “I thought it was all right to let myself just do that for a while.” “Whereas?” he challenged. She leaned forward and turned the ignition switch, stopping the motor which had been laboring and grinding grievously. “It must cool off,” she said, leaping down upon the ground. She went about to the back of the truck and Gerry heard her speaking in French to the passengers behind him. “Grand’mère Bergues,” she said when she returned beside Gerry, “lost for a moment her twig of the tree. I had to find it for her.” “Her twig of what tree?” Gerry asked. “I forgot you didn’t know,” and Ruth told him of Grand’mère Bergues’ tree. “When I convinced her at last,” Ruth added, “that the Boche had broken through and were coming again, she had a stroke; but even so she would not let us carry her until I had brought her a twig of the tree--a twig which was green, and budding, and had sap, though last year the Boche called that tree destroyed. That now must be her triumph.” Ruth restarted the motor and, when they proceeded, Gerry sat without inquiring again of what dangerous, indefinite business this girl was going to do. While he watched her driving, a queer, pulling sensation pulsed in his breast; it associated itself with a vision of a young Englishman, who now undoubtedly was dead, standing behind this girl while she played a little organ with three octaves and they all sang. This was not jealousy, exactly; it was simply recognition of a sort of fellowship which she could share which he would have liked to have discovered himself. It suggested not something more than he had had with Agnes Ertyle; but something quite different and which he liked. He tried to imagine Agnes playing, and singing _Clementine_, and _Wait for the Wagon_; and--he couldn’t. He tried to imagine her crying because someone had called to her, “Good old England”; and he couldn’t. Agnes cried over some things--children who were brought to her and badly wounded boys who died. But Agnes could have told him all that Cynthia had without any emotion at all. Agnes would have told it quite differently, of course. They were coming in sight of a flying field. “Let me off here, please,” Gerry asked when they were opposite it.