There was a man waiting for us by the hole. He helped the croquemort to take the box out of the hearse and put it in the hole. Alice stood close, close to the edge, looking down into the grave. The rest of us stood together behind her. The croquemort gave her a little spade, and told her what to do with it. Then she stooped down and dug up a spadeful of earth and threw it into the hole where they had put the box. Each of us went in turn to give earth to earth. And then it was over. Alice stood close, close to the edge of the hole, and looked and looked down into it. The croquemort said something to Alice, but she did not move. He then spoke to the bigger brother, who shuffled up to Alice and tugged at her sleeve. But still she did not move. The smaller brother began to cry. Then the sister went to Alice and pulled at her other sleeve. "Take her away," the croquemort said to me. I said, "Dear, we must go." Without looking at me, she said, "I--I stay here." She stood close, close to the hole and looked at the little pine box, and said again, quite quietly, "I stay here." I said, "You cannot stay," stupidly, as if we were discussing any ordinary coming or going. Her little sister, pulling at her skirt, said, "Say then, ask thou the lady to let thee go to supper at the cantine." "The cantine is for those who have babies," Alice answered. Then she looked at me for the first time, her great wild eyes, in her face that was stained and streaked where the black from the wet crape had run. FOOTNOTE: [7] All numerals relate to stories told herein--not to chapters in the book. "PRISONER OF WAR"--A SOLDIER'S TALES OF THE ARMY _From the Battlefield to the Camp_ _Told by André Ward, a Soldier in the French Army--Translated by M. Jourdain_ These are the personal experiences of a common soldier. He tells his tales from the viewpoint of the man in the ranks. His stories have been collected into a volume "Prisoner of War." The first of these is here told by permission of the publishers, _J. B. Lippincott Company_. [8]I--STORY OF A PRIVATE--LOOKING BACKWARD Paris again, with its streets, where one can walk where one likes, and its restaurants, where one can eat what one pleases, its real houses, real laughter, and real bread! There it is, after seven days and seven nights in the train. I look at my ragged and buttonless overcoat, with its strap pinned on by a safety pin, and the dirty strip of stuff which was once my red cross _brassard_, and I fancy it is all a dream.