“She still lives, monsieur, and asks for you. It is so.... But she will die. It is dreadful. Yes.... Both legs, monsieur, at the knee. They were swept from beneath her as with a scythe ... and she still lives—asking for monsieur.” “Where?” She told him the hospital, and without a word he turned, running, to search for a taxicab. The thing was incredible. Little Arlette, that mite from fairyland, maimed and bleeding and dying. Such things could not be. This was not war.... He raged, though tears were wet upon his cheeks.... As he rode, the dainty figure of the child stood before him, chin upraised, mouth opened birdwise to sing. He saw her as if she were real.... And then he saw that scene in the street: children playing, the sun daring to shine.... A sudden rushing in the air above, a tremendous detonation. He saw it all, even to the most minute happening. He saw little Arlette standing erect, stricken with sudden fear, saw the burst of the explosion, saw the child diminish suddenly in stature as her little legs were flicked from under her and she dropped upon bleeding stumps before toppling to the pavement.... He uttered a hoarse groan of protest.... He cowered back into a corner of the taxicab and shut his eyes, as if that could shut out the pictures of his imagination. And she had called for him! It seemed he was expected at the hospital, for he was escorted immediately to the little bed upon which Arlette lay. He had dreaded to see her, flinching from a sight which he apprehended might be horrible. He forced himself to look ... and the horror passed. The little face upon the pillow was bloodless, her eyes closed. She seemed not alive, but a thing of fragile loveliness carved from some material brought into being by the fairies for this very purpose.... There was no trace of pain—only motionlessness, a mysterious gravity ... and peace. Old Arlette sat with eyes fixed unwaveringly on the little face; the child’s mother cowered with her face against Arlette’s ample shoulder.... Ken stood in silence. The nurse touched his arm. “Speak to her,” she whispered. “It will make no difference. She has asked many times for you.” “She is—alive?” “And conscious.” “It will not—harm her to arouse her?” “Nothing can harm her.” Kendall understood. Little Arlette was past hurt now, and he had been brought there to give to the child her last little moment of happiness.... He knelt by the cot. “_Mignonne_,” he said, softly. She opened her eyes and stared at him, and then smiled. “He is come. Regard him. I said he would come.” Her voice was so faint as to be almost no voice at all. “Of a certainty I have come,” he said. “What could keep me away from my little sweetheart?... Does—does it hurt?” “Hurt?” She seemed vaguely surprised. “What should hurt, monsieur?” She did not know what had happened to her. “May I kiss you?” he asked. “But yes. Is it not that I am to be your wife? I wish you to kiss me.” “Do you love me very much, _mignonne_?”