On the 1st of May the Ourthe and the Aisne, each with a crisp Spring wave to its waters, came together at Bomal. "Here I am, as fresh as ever," said the frisky little Aisne.

"Oh, come off the rocks," grumbled the Ourthe, elbowing her way towards the bridge, "and don't be so gushing."

"There's a stork passing over us with a May-baby in his beak," bubbled the Aisne.

"A good thing if he dropped it. Here I am very deep," quoth the Ourthe.

The Aisne, who was not deep at all, did not understand the quibble. "How very blue you are!" she gurgled. "What is the matter? Is it going to rain?"

"If it does, mind you keep to your bed," retorted the Ourthe sarcastically.

"I won't. I am coming into yours," plashed the Aisne; and did so.

"Oh! The Meuse take you!" grumbled the Ourthe foaming and swelling.

And they went on together, quarrelling all the way to LiÈge, where the Meuse took them both.

The stork flew across the bridge, and stopped over Dr. BrandÈs's house.

"Open your eyes, little human child," said the stork. "This is where you are born."

"Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover...." sang Nurse Elliot, of the American Red Cross, rocking the cradle with her foot and looking dreamily out of the window. From where she sat she could catch a glimpse of the Bomal church steeple and the swaying tops of the trees in the cemetery.

"Perhaps this poor lamb would be better off if it were already asleep over there under those trees," reflected Nurse Caroline Elliot. And as if in assent, the infant in the cradle uttered a melancholy wail.

Nurse Elliot immediately began to sing Bliss Carman's May-song:

The baby soon gave up all attempt to compete with the powerful American contralto, and with puckered brow and tiny clenched fist went mournfully to sleep again. He had been in the world just seven days and had not found much to rejoice over. Life seemed to consist of a good deal of noise and discomfort and bumping about. There seemed to be not much food, a great deal of singing, and a variety of aches. "I wish I were back in the land of Neverness," wept the baby, "lying in the cup of a lotus-flower in the blue morning of inexistence."

The stork, still standing on one leg on the roof resting from its journey, heard this and said: "Never mind. Cheer up. It is not for long."

"For how long is it?" asked the baby anxiously.

"Oh, less than a hundred years," said the stork, combing the feathers of its breast with its beak.

Then the baby wept even more bitterly. "Why? Why, for so short a time?" it cried.

"You bother me," said the stork; and flew away.

And the cradle rocked and the baby wept and Miss Caroline Elliot sang.

They had arrived in Bomal ten days before—Louise, ChÉrie and Mireille—after a nightmare journey, through Holland and Flanders. At the station in LiÈge, ChÉrie, who was very ill, aroused the compassionate attention of the American Red Cross nurses and they obtained permission to bring her in a motor ambulance to Bomal. Nurse Elliot, a tall kind woman, accompanied her, and was permitted to remain with her and assist her during the ordeal of the ensuing days.

On their arrival Louise had not come straight to the house. She had not dared to bring Mireille to her home. She feared she knew not what. Would the child recognize the place? Would the unconscious eyes perceive and recognize the surroundings that had witnessed her martyrdom? What effect might such a shock have on that stricken, sensitive soul?... Louise felt unable to face any new emotions after the fatigue and misery of the journey and the hourly anxiety in regard to ChÉrie.

So she accompanied Mireille to the home of their old friend, Madame DorÉ.

Doubtful of the welcome she would receive, fearful of the changes she might find, Louise knocked with trembling hand at the door of her old friend's house.

Madame DorÉ herself opened the door to her. But—was this Madame DorÉ? This haggard, white-haired woman, who stared at her with such startled eyes?

"Madame DorÉ! It is I—Louise and little Mireille! Do you not recognize us?"

"Hush! Come in." The woman drew them quickly into the passage and locked the door. Her eyes had a roving, frightened look, and every now and then a nervous spasm contracted her face.

"Oh my dear, my dear," said Louise, embracing her with tears.

Locked in Madame DorÉ's bedroom—for the terrorized woman had the obsession of being constantly watched and spied upon—Louise heard her friend's tragic story and recounted her own. With pitying tears Madame DorÉ caressed Mireille's soft hair and assured Louise that it would be a joy for her and for Jeannette to keep her with them.

"Dear little Jeannette!" exclaimed Louise. "How glad I shall be to see her again. Is she well?"

Yes. Jeannette was well.

"And CÉcile—? You say she is in England?"

"Yes. She went with four or five other women from Bomal and Hamoir. She could not live here any longer; her heart was broken. She never got over the murder of her brother AndrÉ"—the painful spasm distorted the careworn face again—"you knew that he was shot by the side of the poor old CurÉ that night in the Place de l'Église?"

Yes. Louise knew. And she pressed the hand of her old friend with compassionate tenderness. They talked of all their friends and acquaintances. The storm had swept over them, wrecking, ruining and scattering them far and wide.

"Hush, listen!" whispered Madame DorÉ, suddenly grasping Louise's arm. Outside they could hear the measured tread of feet and the sound of loud voices, the loathed and dreaded German voices raised in talk and laughter.

"Our masters!" whispered Madame DorÉ. "They enter our houses when they choose, they come in the middle of the night and rummage through our things. They take away our money and our jewels. They read our letters, they order us about and insult us. We cannot speak or think or breathe without their knowledge and permission. They are constantly threatening us with imprisonment or with deportation. We are slaves and half-starved. Ah!" cried the unhappy woman, "why did I not have the courage to go with CÉcile to England? I don't know ... I felt old, old and frightened.... And now Jeannette and I are here as in a prison, and CÉcile is far away and alone."

Louise soothed her as best she could with caresses and consoling words. But Madame DorÉ was heart-stricken and desolate, and the fact that they had never met CÉcile when they were in London caused her bitter disappointment. Perhaps some evil had befallen CÉcile? Did Louise think she was safe? The English were kind, were they not?

Yes, Louise was sure CÉcile was safe. And yes, the English were very kind.

Even as she spoke a rush of longing came over her; a feeling that resembled home-sickness in its tenderness and yearning. England!—ah, England! How safe, indeed, how safe and kind and cool in its girdle of grey water!...

Perhaps, mused Louise, as she hurried home alone, meeting the inquisitive glance of strangers and the insolent stare of German soldiers in the familiar village-streets, perhaps it would have been better after all if they had remained safely in England, if they had disregarded the warning of the invader and allowed him to confiscate their home. Thus at least they would have remained beyond the reach of his intrusions, his insults and his cruelty.

Meanwhile, in Dr. BrandÈs's house the energetic and capable Miss Elliot had not been idle. A quick survey of the ransacked abode had shown her that, although most of the valuables and all the silver and pictures had been stolen, the necessary household utensils, and even the linen, were left. Briskly and cheerfully she settled ChÉrie in a snow-white bed, brushed and braided her shining hair in two long plaits, gave her a cup of bread-and-milk and set resolutely to work to clear away some of the litter and confusion before Louise should arrive.

There were dirty plates and glasses, and empty bottles everywhere; there were muddy mattresses on the floor. People seemed to have slept and eaten in every room in the house. Tables, carpets and beds were strewn with cigar and cigarette-stumps; drawers and wardrobes had been emptied and their contents scattered on the floor; basins of dirty water stood on cabinets, sideboard and chairs.

Caroline Elliot brushed and emptied and cleared and cleaned, and drew in the shutters, and opened the windows, and lit the fires; and by the time she heard Louise's hurrying footsteps, was able to stand aside with a little smile of satisfaction and watch Louise's pale face light up with emotion and pleasure.

It was home, home after all!

And Louise, looking round the familiar rooms, felt a tremor of hope—the timid hope of better days to come—stir in the depths of her thankful heart.