that the lightest paper flower that lay upon the poorest heap of earth
was never touched by a rude hand, but perished there, a sacred thing!

"Nothing of the solemnity of Death here," Mr. The Englishman had been
going to say, when this last consideration touched him with a mild
appeal, and on the whole he walked out without saying it. "But these
people are," he insisted, by way of compensation, when he was well
outside the gate, "they are so"--Participled--"sentimental!"

His way back lay by the military gymnasium-ground. And there he passed
the Corporal glibly instructing young soldiers how to swing themselves
over rapid and deep watercourses on their way to Glory, by means of a
rope, and himself deftly plunging off a platform, and flying a hundred
feet or two, as an encouragement to them to begin. And there he also
passed, perched on a crowning eminence (probably the Corporal's careful
hands), the small Bebelle, with her round eyes wide open, surveying the
proceeding like a wondering sort of blue and white bird.

"If that child was to die," this was his reflection as he turned his back
and went his way,--"and it would almost serve the fellow right for making
such a fool of himself,--I suppose we should have him sticking up a
wreath and a waiter in that fantastic burying-ground."

Nevertheless, after another early morning or two of looking out of
window, he strolled down into the Place, when the Corporal and Bebelle
were walking there, and touching his hat to the Corporal (an immense
achievement), wished him Good-day.

"Good-day, monsieur."