Straight he went there, and when he came within the gate he paused, considering whether he should ask at the lodge for some direction to the grave.  But he was less than ever in a mood for asking questions, and he thought, “I shall see something on it to know it by.”

In search of the Corporal’s grave he went softly on, up this walk and down that, peering in, among the crosses and hearts and columns and obelisks and tombstones, for a recently disturbed spot.  It troubled him now to think how many dead there were in the cemetery,—­he had not thought them a tenth part so numerous before,—­and after he had walked and sought for some time, he said to himself, as he struck down a new vista of tombs, “I might suppose that every one was dead but I.”

Not every one.  A live child was lying on the ground asleep.  Truly he had found something on the Corporal’s grave to know it by, and the something was Bebelle.

With such a loving will had the dead soldier’s comrades worked at his resting-place, that it was already a neat garden.  On the green turf of the garden Bebelle lay sleeping, with her cheek touching it.  A plain, unpainted little wooden Cross was planted in the turf, and her short arm embraced this little Cross, as it had many a time embraced the Corporal’s neck.  They had put a tiny flag (the flag of France) at his head, and a laurel garland.

Mr. The Englishman took off his hat, and stood for a while silent.  Then, covering his head again, he bent down on one knee, and softly roused the child.

“Bebelle!  My little one!”

Opening her eyes, on which the tears were still wet, Bebelle was at first frightened; but seeing who it was, she suffered him to take her in his arms, looking steadfastly at him.

“You must not lie here, my little one.  You must come with me.”

“No, no.  I can’t leave Theophile.  I want the good dear Theophile.”

“We will go and seek him, Bebelle.  We will go and look for him in England.  We will go and look for him at my daughter’s, Bebelle.”

“Shall we find him there?”

“We shall find the best part of him there.  Come with me, poor forlorn little one.  Heaven is my witness,” said the Englishman, in a low voice, as, before he rose, he touched the turf above the gentle Corporal’s breast, “that I thankfully accept this trust!”

It was a long way for the child to have come unaided.  She was soon asleep again, with her embrace transferred to the Englishman’s neck.  He looked at her worn shoes, and her galled feet, and her tired face, and believed that she had come there every day.

He was leaving the grave with the slumbering Bebelle in his arms, when he stopped, looked wistfully down at it, and looked wistfully at the other graves around.  “It is the innocent custom of the people,” said Mr. The Englishman, with hesitation.  “I think I should like to do it.  No one sees.”