XIV
For four days the gray car did not come again. Supplies appeared in
another gray car, driven by a surly Fleming. The waking hours were full,
as usual. Sara Lee grew a little thin, and seemed to be always
listening. But there was no Henri, and something that was vivid and
joyous seemed to have gone out of the little house.
Even Marie no longer sang as she swept or washed the kettles, and Sara
Lee, making up the records to send home, put little spirit into the
letter that went with them.
On the second day she wrote to Harvey.
"I am sorry that you feel as you do," she wrote, perhaps unconsciously
using Henri's last words to her. "I have not meant to be cruel. And
if you were here you would realize that whether others could have done
what I am doing or not--and of course many could--it is worth doing.
I hear that other women are establishing houses like this, but the
British and the French will not allow women so near the lines. The men
come in at night from the trenches so tired, so hungry and so cold.
Some of them are wounded too. I dress the little wounds. I do give
them something, Harvey dear--if it is only a reminder that there are
homes in the world, and everything is not mud and waiting and killing.
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