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. "Never!" he said stubbornly, halting in the doorway. "This is mademoiselle's boudoir. Her drawing-room as well. I am going to the mill house and--" He staggered. So Sara Lee's room had a different occupant for a time, a thin and fine-worn young Belgian, who yielded to Sara Lee when Jean gave up in despair, and who proceeded, most unmanfully, to faint as soon as he was between the blankets. If Sara Lee hoped to nurse Henri she was doomed to disappointment. Jean it was who took over the care of the boy, a Jean who now ate prodigiously, and whistled occasionally, and slept at night robed in his blanket on the floor beside Henri's bed, lest that rebellious invalid get up and try to move about. On the first night, with the door closed, against Henri's entreaties, while the little house received its evening complement of men, and with Henri lying back on his pillows, fresh dressed as to the wounds in his arm and chest, fed with Sara Lee's daintiest, and resting, Jean found the boy's eyes resting on the mantel. "Dear and obstinate friend," said Henri, "do you wish me to be happy?" "You shall not leave the room or your bed. That is arranged for." "How?" demanded Henri with interest. "Because I have hidden away your trousers." Henri laughed, but he sobered quickly. "If you wish me to be happy," he said, "take away that American photograph. But first, please to bring it here." Jean brought it, holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. And Henri lay back and studied it. "It is mademoiselle's fiancé," he said. Jean grunted. "Look at it, Jean," Henri said in his half-bantering tone, with despair beneath it; "and then look at me. Or no--remembering me as I was when I was a man. He is better, eh? It is a good face. But there is a jaw, a--Do you think he will be kind to her as she requires? She requires much kindness. Some women--" He broke off and watched Jean anxiously. "A half face!" Jean said scornfully. "The pretty view! As for kindness--" He put the photograph face down on the table. "I knew once a man in Belgium who married an American. At Antwerp. They were most unhappy." Henri smiled.