“It would simply break my heart if she were torpedoed.”

Evelyn confided that, childlike, to the black-browed, stout Frenchwoman who took a personal interest in every “buton,” and then she opened her bag and brought out Robina’s photograph, standing, in a ruffled bonnet, her solemn West Highland White terrier dog in her arms, on the garden path of “Graystones” between tall foxgloves.  And the Frenchwoman tossed up enraptured hands at the beauty of the little girl who was to get the doll, and did not miss the great, splendid house in the background, or the fact that the dog was of a “chic” variety.

The two weeks fled, every day full of the breathless life—­and death—­of a hospital in war-torn France.  Every day the girl saw sights and heard sounds which it seemed difficult to see and hear and go on living, but she moved serene through such an environment, because she could help.  Every day she gave all that was in her to the suffering boys who were carried, in a never-ending stream of stretchers, into the hospital.  And the strength she gave flowed back to her endlessly from, she could not but believe it, the underlying source of all strength, which stretches beneath and about us all, and from which those who give greatly know how to draw.

Two or three times, during the two weeks, Evelyn had gone in to inspect the progress of Robina’s doll, and spent a happy and light-hearted quarter of an hour with friendly Madame of the shop, deciding the color of the lady’s party coat, and of the ribbons in her minute underclothes, and packing and repacking the trunk with enchanting fairy foolishnesses.  Again and again she smiled to herself, in bed at night, going about her work in the long days, as she thought of the little girl’s rapture over the many and carefully planned details.  For, with all the presents showered on her, Robina’s aunt knew that Robina had never had anything as perfect as this exquisite Paris doll and her trousseau.

The day came on which Evelyn was to make her final visit to “La Marquise,” as Madame called the doll, and the nurse was needed in the hospital and could not go.  But she telephoned Madame and made an appointment for tomorrow.

“‘La Marquise’ finds herself quite ready for the voyage,” Madame spoke over the telephone.  “She is all which there is of most lovely; Paris itself has never seen a so ravishing doll.  I say it.  We wait anxiously to greet Mademoiselle, I and La Marquise,” Madame assured her.  Evelyn, laughing with sheer pleasure, made an engagement for the next day, without fail, and went back to her work.

There was a badly wounded poilu in her ward, whom the girl had come to know well.  He was young, perhaps twenty-seven, and his warm brown eyes were full of a quality of gentleness which endeared him to everyone who came near him.  He was very grateful, very uncomplaining, a simple-minded, honest, common, young peasant, with a charm uncommon.  The unending bright courage with which he made light of cruel pain, was almost more than Evelyn, used as she was to brave men’s pain, could bear.  He could not get well—­the doctors said that—­and it seemed that he could not die.