"Your Majesty," she said, "in my book, _The Fairy Prince_, the girl sings a song about love, and she asks her mother, '_Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?_' I know now that it is both. Ah! I think it is too wonderful to be a woman; for some day, perhaps yes, perhaps no, I shall have my own children and a husband and friends. And sometimes, when my husband, he is much discouraged if the mill makes no money, though he works so hard, or if my children are perhaps sick and cry--then it is I who smile and say: '_Mes enfants_'--for he, too, will be only a big child--'_Mes enfants_, can you see the sunshine? Do you hear the birds? Can you smell these flowers?--So!' _Et alors_--perhaps they smile too. So I sing a pretty song and say to my husband '_Courage, mon ami!_ Have you not your little wife?' And after that we are all happy.... And now, that is why I think it is so wonderful to be a woman." The clock hiccoughed, and struck eight. The airman looked at his watch. "By Jove, it is midnight!" he said. "Pippa, our day is over----" Tears sprang to her eyes, and her hands groped for his. "But no, monsieur," she cried, "you must not go. It will be so lonely." He leaned over and covered her little hands with his large, tanned ones. "It will be lonely for me as well," he said. "But you will come back, Your Majesty? Perhaps--next Easter?" He gently stroked her hand. "On my honor," he said, "I will come on the Tuesday at dawn. You will be there?" He released her hands as she slowly rose and crossed once more to the window. "At daybreak," she said very quietly, gazing at the steely brilliance of the running water, "I will watch from the hill. And if you do not come, though I shall weep a little, I shall say, 'He is fighting, and could not leave for little Pippa. Next year he will come.'" "And supposing, little one, he does not come the next year either?" She leaned her arm against the window-pane and rested her cheek on it. "I shall watch again at dawn, monsieur"--the words were spoken very slowly--"and I shall say, 'He is not coming.... He has gone to be with his brothers who went, out into the sunlight, smiling so bravely----'" Her words ended in a half-sob, and she pressed her face with both hands. "But every Easter," she said, her voice very soft and trembling, "on the Tuesday I will watch the dawn from the hill, and perhaps, monsieur, you will see me." He stood motionless for a moment, slowly reached for her leather coat and helmet, and placed them over his arm. "Good-by, Pippa," he said, and he held out his hands. Timidly, and with cheeks that went all white, then crimson, she came towards him and raised her face for him to kiss. For a moment he held her in his arms, which quivered oddly.... Then, stooping, he gently kissed her--not on the upturned, trembling lips, but on the cheek, just beside her mouth. Without a word he gently released her from his arms, flung the door open and went out into the night.