“If Corporal Duplessis might die,” Evelyn spoke to the surgeon.

He answered, considering:  “I don’t see what keeps him alive.”

“I believe,” said Evelyn, “there’s something on his mind.  He sighs constantly.  Broken-heartedly.  I believe he can’t die until his mind is relieved.”

“It may be that,” agreed Dr. Norton.  “You could help him if you could get him to tell you.”  And moved on to the next shattered thing that had been, so lately, a strong, buoyant boy.

Evelyn went back to Duplessis and bent over him and spoke cheerful words; he smiled up at her with quick French responsiveness, and then sighed the heavy, anxious sigh which had come to be part of him.  With that the girl took his one good hand and stroked it.  “If you could tell the American Sister what it is,” she spoke softly, “that troubles your mind, perhaps I might help you.  We Americans, you know,” and she smiled at him, “we are wonderful people.  We can do all sorts of magic—­and I want to help you to rest, so much.  I’d do anything to help you.  Won’t you tell me what it is that bothers?” Evelyn Bruce’s voice was winning, and Duplessis’ eyes rested on her affectionately.

“But how the Sister understands one!” he said.  “It is true that there is a trouble.  It hinders me to die”—­and the heavy sigh swept out again.  “It would be a luxury for me—­dying.  The pain is bad, at times.  Yet the Sister knows I am glad to have it, for France.  Ah, yes!  But—­if I might be released.  Yet the thought of what I said to her keeps me from dying always.”

“What you said ‘to her,’ corporal?” repeated Evelyn.  “Can’t you tell me what it was?  I would try so hard to help you.  I might perhaps.”

“Who knows?” smiled the corporal, “It is true that Americans work magic.  And the Sister is of a goodness!  But yes.  Yet the Sister may laugh at me, for it is a thing entirely childish, my trouble.”

“I will not laugh at you, Corporal,” said Evelyn, gravely, and felt something wring her heart.

“If—­then—­if the Sister will not think it foolish—­I will tell.”  The Sister’s answer was to stroke his fingers.  “It is my child, my little girl,” Duplessis began in his deep, weak tones.  “It was to her I made the promise.”

“What promise?” prompted Evelyn softly, as he stopped.

“One sees,” the deep voice began again, “that when I told them goodbye, the mother and Marie my wife, and the petite, who has five years, then I started away, and would not look back, because I could not well bear it, Sister.  And suddenly, as I strode to the street from our cottage, down the brick walk, where there are roses and also other flowers, on both sides—­suddenly I heard a cry.  And it was the voice of little Jeanne, the petite.  I turned at that sound, for I could not help it, Sister, and between the flowers the little one came running, and as I bent she threw her arms about my neck and held me so tight, tight