It was difficult for Constance to express thoughts, feelings, intangible events on paper. But she must try. And now. Later—to-morrow, it might be too late. The conviction might fade and never visit her again so vividly.
She tore out a page from her note book, sat down on a rock by a tree. It was dawn. Light enough. The noise was terrific. More barrage fire, she concluded. But she could write, she guessed.
When Ellen came to relieve Constance at eight o'clock, as she had promised, she found her there waiting by the tree, between two French soldiers. They had covered her with their overcoats. There was just the least little bit of a scar. A stray bit of shrapnel, the soldiers said.
She'd just pointed out the right road to them, they explained, and sung out so gay and cheerful that there was a canteen and hot coffee not much further on, and then quickly in a flash, had toppled over sidewise, like a child's toy, with the smile still on her lips. They had found this bit of paper in her hands with the English writing on it in pencil. Perhaps the English lady might like to read it. Ellen took the bit of paper from the soldier's hands. There hadn't been time for Constance to write but a few words, just eleven, in fact—but the light of her message shone a
