Among the flowers, which had come back self-sown or from old roots, Claude found a group of tall, straggly plants with red-dish stems and tiny white blossoms,–one of the evening primrose family, the Gaura, that grew along the clay banks of Lovely Creek, at home. He had never thought it very pretty, but he was pleased to find it here. He had supposed it was one of those nameless prairie flowers that grew on the prairie and nowhere else.
When they went back to the barrack, Mlle. Olive was sitting in one of the canvas chairs Louis had placed under the new pavilion.
“What a fine fellow he is!” Claude exclaimed, looking after him.
“Louis? Yes. He was my brother’s orderly. When Emile came home on leave he always brought Louis with him, and Louis became like one of the family. The shell that killed my brother tore off his arm. My mother and I went to visit him in the hospital, and he seemed ashamed to be alive, poor boy, when my brother was dead. He put his hand over his face and began to cry, and said, ‘Oh, Madame, il était toujours plus chic que moi!’ ”
Although Mlle. Olive spoke English well, Claude saw that she did so only by keeping her mind intently upon it. The stiff sentences she uttered were foreign to her nature; her face and eyes ran ahead of her tongue and made one wait eagerly for what was coming. He sat down in a sagging canvas chair, absently twisting a sprig of Gaura he had pulled.
“You have found a flower?” She looked up.
“Yes. It grows at home, on my father’s farm.”
She dropped the faded shirt she was darning. “Oh, tell
