“As soon as we find time,” continued the girl, “we intend to search for your wife and children.  I am sure we can find them for you.”

Maurie moved uneasily in his chair.

“I beg you to take no trouble on my account,” said he.  “With the Red Cross you have great work to accomplish.  What is the despair of one poor Walloon to you?”

“It is a great deal to us, Maurie,” returned the girl, earnestly.  “You have been a friend in need; without you we could not have made our dash to the front to-day.  We shall try to repay you by finding your wife.”

He was silent, but his troubled look told of busy thoughts.

“What does she look like?” inquired Beth.  “Have you her photograph?”

“No; she would not make a good picture, mamselle,” he answered with a sigh.  “Clarette is large; she is fat; she has a way of scowling when one does not bring in more wood than the fire can eat up; and she is very religious.”

“With that description I am sure we can find her,” cried Patsy enthusiastically.

He seemed disturbed.

“If you please,” said he plaintively, “Clarette is quite able to take care of herself.  She has a strong will.”

“But if you know she is safe it will relieve your anxiety,” suggested Beth.  “You told us yesterday you had been searching everywhere for her.”

“If I said everywhere, I was wrong, for poor Clarette must be somewhere.  And since yesterday I have been thinking with more deliberation, and I have decided,” he added, his tone becoming confidential, “that it is better I do not find Clarette just now.  It might destroy my usefulness to the Red Cross.”

“But your children!” protested Patsy.  “Surely you cannot rest at ease with your two dear children wandering about, in constant danger.”

“To be frank, mamselle,” said he, “they are not my children.  I had a baby, but it was killed, as I told you.  The boy and girl I have mentioned were born when Clarette was the wife of another man—­a blacksmith at Dinant—­who had a sad habit of beating her.”

“But you love the little ones, I am sure.”

He shook his head.

“They have somewhat the temper of their father, the blacksmith.  I took them when I took Clarette—­just as I took the silver spoons and the checkered tablespread she brought with her—­but now that a cruel fate has separated me from the children, perhaps it is all for the best.”

The doctor gave a snort of disgust, while Ajo smiled.  The girls were too astonished to pursue the conversation, but now realized that Maurie’s private affairs did not require their good offices to untangle.  Uncle John was quite amused at the Belgian’s confession and was the only one to reply.

“Fate often seems cruel when she is in her happiest mood,” said he.  “Perhaps, Maurie, your Clarette will come to you without your seeking her, for all Belgium seems headed toward France just now.  What do you think?  Will the Germans capture Dunkirk?”