Her brief dreams had eclipsed her girlish memories. Now the dreams had become blurred. She strove to bring them back till her soul ached, till she broke down into miserable weeping. She was alone in a strange, unedifying town; in a strange, vast, commonplace hotel. The cold, moonlit Place de la Vendome, with its memorable column, just opposite her bedroom window, meant nothing to her. She had the desolating sense that nothing in the world would ever matter to her again--nothing as far as she, Peggy Manningtree, was concerned. Her life was over. Altruism alone gave sanction to continued existence. Hence her present adventure. Paris might have been Burslem for all the interest it afforded. * * * * * Jeanne worked from morning to night in the succursale of the Croix Rouge in the Rue Vaugirard. She had tried, after the establishment of her affairs, to enter, in no matter what capacity, a British base hospital. It would be a consolation for her surrender of Doggie to work for his wounded comrades. Besides, twice in her life she owed everything to the English, and the repayment of the debt was a matter of conscience. But she found that the gates of English hospitals were thronged with English girls; and she could not even speak the language. So, guided by the Paris friend with whom she lodged, she made her way to the Rue Vaugirard, where, in the packing-room, she had found hard unemotional employment. Yet the work had to be done: and it was done for France, which, after all, was dearer to her than England; and among her fellow-workers, women of all classes, she had pleasant companionship. When, one day, the old concierge, bemedalled from the war of 1870, appeared to her in the packing-room, with the announcement that a _dame anglaise_ desired to speak to her, she was at first bewildered. She knew no English ladies--had never met one in her life. It took a second or two for the thought to flash that the visit might concern Doggie. Then came conviction. In blue overall and cap, she followed the concierge to the ante-room, her heart beating. At the sight of the young Englishwoman in black, with a crape hat and little white band beneath the veil, it nearly stopped altogether. Peggy advanced with outstretched hand. "You are Mademoiselle Jeanne Bossiere?" "Yes, madame." "I am a cousin of Monsieur Trevor----" "Ah, madame"--Jeanne pointed to the mourning--"you do not come to tell me he is dead?" Peggy smiled. "No. I hope not." "Ah!" Jeanne sighed in relief, "I thought----" "This is for my husband," said Peggy quietly. "_Ah, madame! je demande bien pardon. J'ai du vous faire de la peine. Je n'y pensais pas_----" Jeanne was in great distress. Peggy smiled again. "Widows dress differently in England and France." She looked around and her eyes fell upon a bench by the wall. "Could we sit down and have a little talk?" "_Pardon, madame, c'est que je suis un peu emue_ ..." said Jeanne.