He laid his hand over hers.  “May I have your prayer-book in exchange for mine?” He was very serious.  With all his heart he loved her, and never more than at this moment when she had thrown aside all reserves and had let him see her soul.

She drew the little book from her pocket.  It was bound in red leather, with a thin black cross on the cover.  His own was in khaki.

“I want something else,” he said, as he held the book in his hand.

“What?”

“This.”  He touched a lock of hair which lay against her cheek.  “A bit of it—­of you—­”

A band of poilus—­marching through the street, saw him cut it off.  But they did not laugh.  They had great respect for a thing like that—­and it happened every day—­when men went away from their women.

They separated with a promise of perhaps a reunion in Paris, if he could get leave and if she could be spared.  Then she drove away through the mud in her little car, and he went back to his men.

Thus they were swept apart by that tide of war which threatened to submerge the world.

Drusilla, arriving late at her baraque, made tea, and sat by an infinitesimal stove.

She found herself alone, for the other women were away on various errands.  She uncovered all the glory of her lovely hair, and in her little mirror surveyed pensively the ragged lock over her left ear.

A man like that, oh, a man like that.  What more could a woman ask—­than love like that?

Yet even in the midst of her thought of him, came the feeling that she was not predestined for happiness.  She must go on riding over rough roads on her errands of mercy.  Nothing must interfere with that, not love or matters of personal preference—­nothing.

She was very tired.  But there was no time for rest.  A half dozen kilted Highlanders hailed her through the open door and asked for a song.  She gave them “Wee Hoose Amang the Heather—­” standing on the step.  It was still raining, and they took with them a picture of a girl with glorious uncovered hair, and that cut tell-tale lock against her cheek.

Drusilla watching them go, wondered if she would ever see them again, with their pert caps, the bare knees of them—­the strong swing of their bodies.

She stretched her arms above her head.  “Oh, oh, I’m tired—­”

She went in and poured another cup of tea.  She left the door open.  Indeed it always stood open that the room might shine its welcome.

Snatching forty winks, she waked to find a woman standing over her—­a tall woman in a blue cloak and bonnet, who held in her hand a dripping umbrella.

She felt that she still dreamed.  “It can’t be Hilda Merritt?”

“Yes, it is.”  Hilda set the umbrella in the wood box.  “I knew you were here.”

“Who told you?”

“Dr. McKenzie.”

“Oh, you are with him, then?”