It was a long way for the child to have come unaided. She was soon
asleep again, with her embrace transferred to the Englishman's neck. He
looked at her worn shoes, and her galled feet, and her tired face, and
believed that she had come there every day.

He was leaving the grave with the slumbering Bebelle in his arms, when he
stopped, looked wistfully down at it, and looked wistfully at the other
graves around. "It is the innocent custom of the people," said Mr. The
Englishman, with hesitation. "I think I should like to do it. No one
sees."

Careful not to wake Bebelle as he went, he repaired to the lodge where
such little tokens of remembrance were sold, and bought two wreaths. One,
blue and white and glistening silver, "To my friend;" one of a soberer
red and black and yellow, "To my friend." With these he went back to the
grave, and so down on one knee again. Touching the child's lips with the
brighter wreath, he guided her hand to hang it on the Cross; then hung
his own wreath there. After all, the wreaths were not far out of keeping
with the little garden. To my friend. To my friend.

Mr. The Englishman took it very ill when he looked round a street corner
into the Great Place, carrying Bebelle in his arms, that old Mutuel
should be there airing his red ribbon. He took a world of pains to dodge
the worthy Mutuel, and devoted a surprising amount of time and trouble to
skulking into his own lodging like a man pursued by Justice. Safely
arrived there at last, he made Bebelle's toilet with as accurate a
remembrance as he could bring to bear upon that work of the way in which
he had often seen the poor Corporal make it, and having given her to eat
and drink, laid her down on his own bed. Then he slipped out into the
barber's shop, and after a brief interview with the barber's wife, and a