Far away a gap in
the poplar trees showed a German observation balloon, a tiny dot against
the sky.
The man Henri watched went slowly, for he carried a bag of grain on his
back. Henri no longed watched him, He watched the wind wheel. It had
been broken, and one plane was now patched with what looked like a red
cloth. There was a good wind, but clearly the miller was idle that day.
The great wings were not turning.
Henri sat still and smoked. He thought of many things--of Sara Lee's
eyes when in the center of the London traffic she had held the dying
donkey; of her small and radiant figure at the Savoy; of the morning he
had found her at Calais, in the Gare Maritime, quietly unconscious that
she had done a courageous thing. And he thought, too, of the ring and
the photograph she carried. But mostly he remembered the things she had
said to him on their last meeting.
Perhaps there came to him his temptation too. It would be so easy that
night, if things went well, to make a brave showing before her, to let
her see that these odd jobs he did had their value and their risks. But
he put that from him. The little house of mercy must be empty that
night, for her sake.
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