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The temptation was frightful.

Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they could.... Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen she wore.... Well, what—if—there—was?

She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk.

The next morning she bought some new linen....

She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise.

The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of 1916. Madeleine began to wonder ... wonder why he did not appear.

When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office.

She did not get far.

“You are his wife?” said the clerk.

“Yes.”

“What is his regiment?”

“I do not know. He has never told me.”

“Show me a letter of his.”

“I have none. He never writes.”

“Nor you to him?”

“Never. He was sergeant, I think.”

Two shoulders were shrugged.

“So are many. You are sure you are married?”