Hinchcliffe had stepped up. There was an intent look in his face as he watched the child. Then the man's expression softened. The cunning lines about the mouth took on something of tenderness. The shrewd, appraising eyes lost their glint under a film of tears. He went over to the little one, and touched her very lightly on the hair. It was bright and gay, and incongruous on a body that was so visibly dying. It gave a pleasure of sunlight on what was doomed. Still she went on whistling through her broken body, and with each breath she gave a low murmur of pain. "Sister," said Hilda, to one of the women, "what is it with the child? She is very ill?" "She is dying," said the nurse. "Her back is slashed open to the bone with bayonets. She was placed in front of the troops, and they cut her, when she fell in fright." "And her breathing?" asked Hilda. "I can hear her with each breath." "Yes, it is hard with her. Her body is torn, and the breath is loud as it comes. It will soon be over. She will not suffer long." Hilda and her companion stepped out into the open air, and climbed into the waiting motor. The banker was crying and swearing softly to himself. "The little children who have died, what becomes of them?" said Hilda. "Will they have a chance to play somewhere? And the children still in pain, here and everywhere in Belgium--will it be made up to them? Will a million of indemnity give them back their playtime? That little girl whom you touched--" "The hair," he said, "did you see her hair? The same color as yours." "I know," said Hilda, "I saw myself in her place. I feel that I could go out and kill." "It was the hair," repeated the banker. "My little daughter's hair is the color of yours. That was why I let you say those things to me that evening in London. I could not sleep that night for thinking of all you said. And when I looked across the room just now, I thought it was my daughter lying there. For a moment, I thought I saw my daughter." THE BONFIRE