“The matron has friends in France,” she answered, “who are connected with the military hospitals. It was not difficult to get me the place, under those circumstances. Society can find a use for me here. My hand is as light, my words of comfort are as welcome, among those suffering wretches” (she pointed to the room in which the wounded men were lying) “as if I was the most reputable woman breathing. And if a stray shot comes my way before the war is over--well! Society will be rid of me on easy terms.” She stood looking thoughtfully into the wreck of the fire--as if she saw in it the wreck of her own life. Common humanity made it an act of necessity to say something to her. Grace considered--advanced a step toward her--stopped--and took refuge in the most trivial of all the common phrases which one human being can address to another. “If there is anything I can do for you--” she began. The sentence, halting there, was never finished. Miss Roseberry was just merciful enough toward the lost woman who had rescued and sheltered her to feel that it was needless to say more. The nurse lifted her noble head and advanced slowly toward the canvas screen to return to her duties. “Miss Roseberry might have taken my hand!” she thought to herself, bitterly. No! Miss Roseberry stood there at a distance, at a loss what to say next. “What can you do for me?” Mercy asked, stung by the cold courtesy of her companion into a momentary outbreak of contempt. “Can you change my identity? Can you give me the name and the place of an innocent woman? If I only had your chance! If I only had your reputation and your prospects!” She laid one hand over her bosom, and controlled herself. “Stay here,” she resumed, “while I go back to my work. I will see that your clothes are dried. You shall wear my clothes as short a time as possible.” With those melancholy words--touchingly, not bitterly spoken--she moved to pass into the kitchen, when she noticed that the pattering sound of the rain against the window was audible no more. Dropping the canvas for the moment, she retraced her steps, and, unfastening the wooden shutter, looked out. The moon was rising dimly in the watery sky; the rain had ceased; the friendly darkness which had hidden the French position from the German scouts was lessening every moment. In a few hours more (if nothing happened) the English lady might resume her journey. In a few hours more the morning would dawn. Mercy lifted her hand to close the shutter. Before she could fasten it the report of a rifle-shot reached the cottage from one of the distant posts. It was followed almost instantly by a second report, nearer and louder than the first. Mercy paused, with the shutter in her hand, and listened intently for the next sound. CHAPTER III. THE GERMAN SHELL. A THIRD rifle-shot rang through the night air, close to the cottage. Grace started and approached the window in alarm. “What does that firing mean?” she asked.