“My husband never meant to desert,” she cried between her sobs.  “He was doing his duty well—­his own Sergeant said so.  He must have been crazy when he struck the blow!”

“Poor McGillicuddy,” said the chaplain quietly.  “The Colonel has forbidden him to speak of it to any one, and he is breaking his heart over it.”

No word of forgiveness came from Mrs. Lawrence’s lips.

“It is the way with all of them, officers and men, they were all down on my husband because they thought he had done something wrong,” said Mrs. Lawrence, with the divine, unreasoning love of a devoted woman.

“Mr. Broussard was not down on your husband,” said the chaplain.

“True,” replied Mrs. Lawrence, and then shut her lips close.  If any one wished to know the secret bond between Broussard and Lawrence, one could never find it out from Mrs. Lawrence.

Sergeant McGillicuddy could keep from Mrs. McGillicuddy the details of what had occurred on the aviation field, but he could not conceal from her the fact that he was unhappy and conscience-stricken.  All he would say to his wife was: 

“I’ve done a man a wrong.  I never meant it, as both God and the Colonel know.”  McGillicuddy had a way of bracketing the Deity with commanding officers, and did it with much simplicity and meant no irreverence.

“And I know it too, Patrick,” replied Mrs. McGillicuddy, with the faith of a true wife in her husband.

“I’d tell you all about it, Araminta,” said the poor Sergeant, “but the Colonel forbid me, and orders is orders.”

“I know it,” answered Mrs. McGillicuddy, “and I’ll trust you, Patrick, I won’t ever ask you the name because I can guess it easy.  It’s Lawrence.”

The Sergeant groaned.

“If you can do anything for Mrs. Lawrence,” he said, “or the boy——­”

“I’ll do it,” valiantly replied Mrs. McGillicuddy, and straightway put her good words into effect.

Lawrence had then been missing five days.  It was seven o’clock in the evening, and Mrs. McGillicuddy had already put the After-Clap to bed when she started for Mrs. Lawrence’s quarters.  There was no one to open the door, and Mrs. McGillicuddy walked unceremoniously into the little sitting-room, where the boy sat, silent and lonely and frightened, by the window.  Mrs. McGillicuddy spoke a cheery word to him, and then passed into the bedroom beyond.  The light was dim but she could see Mrs. Lawrence lying, fully dressed, on the bed.  At the sight of Mrs. McGillicuddy she turned her face away.

“Come now,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy undauntedly, “I think I know why you don’t want to see me.  Well, Patrick McGillicuddy is as good a man as wears shoe-leather, but every Sergeant that ever lived has made some sort of a mistake in his life.  So Patrick wants me to do all I can for you until something turns up, and I hope that something will be your husband—­and my husband will be mighty easy on him at the court-martial.”