They were alone in the drawing room. Mrs. Hastings laid aside her knitting, rose slowly—she was a portly woman—and went across to Corinna and put her arm about her shoulders. “Can’t you tell me what it was, dearie?” she whispered. Corinna melted to the voice. It awakened memories of unutterable comfort of childish years. She surrendered to the embrace. “Yes, mother. The truest man I have ever known—a Frenchman—is dying over there. He asked me to marry him a year ago. And I was a fool, mother. Oh! an awful fool!” And half an hour later, she said tearfully: “I’ve been a fool in so many ways. I’ve misjudged you so, mother. It never occurred to me that you would understand.” “My dear,” said Mrs. Hastings, stroking her hair, “to bring ten children into the world and keep them going on small means, to say nothing of looking after a husband, isn’t a bad education.” The next day came a telegram. “Re letter Félise. If you want to find yourself at last go straight to Bigourdin. Fortinbras.” The message was a lash. She had not contemplated the possibility of going to France. In the sleepless nights she had ached to be with him. But how? In Tierra del Fuego he would be equally inaccessible. “Go straight to him.” The words were very simple. Of course she would go. Why had she waited for Fortinbras to point out her duty? Then came the humiliating knowledge of impotence. She looked in her purse and counted out her fortune of thirteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny. A very humble Corinna showed letter and telegram to her mother. “The war seems to have turned everything upside down,” said the latter. “You ought to go, dear. It’s a sacred duty.” “But how can I? I have no money. I can’t ask father.” “Come upstairs,” said Mrs. Hastings. She led the way to her bedroom and from a locked drawer took an old-fashioned japanned despatch-box, which she opened. “All my married life,” she said, “I have managed to keep something against a rainy day. Take what you want, dear.” Thus came the overthrowal of all Corinna’s scheme of values. She went to France, a woman with a warm and throbbing heart. CHAPTER XXIV IT was with difficulty that she reached the little French town, and it was with infinitely more difficulty that she overcame military obstacles and penetrated into the poor little whitewashed school that did duty as a hospital. It was a great bare room with a double row of iron bedsteads, a gangway between them. Here and there an ominous screen shut off a bed. A few bandaged men half dressed were sitting up smoking and playing cards. An odour of disinfectant caught her by the throat. A human form lying by the door with but little face visible, was moaning piteously. She shrank on the threshold, aghast at this abode of mangled men. The young _aide-major_ escorting her, pointed up the ward. “You will find him there, Mademoiselle, Number Seventeen.” “How is he?” she asked.