"She was six, M'sieur," explained Jean, "and while I slept,
dreaming of one gr-r-rand paradise, she cut off my moustaches.
They were splendid, those moustaches, but they would never grow
right after that, and so I have gone shaven."

In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see that
Josephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was
forcing herself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account. He
accompanied her back to the tent after she had bade Jean good-
night, and as they stood for a moment before the open flap there
filled the girl's face a look that was partly of self-reproach and
partly of wistful entreaty for his understanding and forgiveness.

"You have been good to me," she said. "No one can ever know how
good you have been to me, what it has meant to me, and I thank
you."

She bowed her head, and again he restrained the impulse to gather
her close up in his arms. When she looked up he was holding
something toward her in the palm of his hand. It was a little
Bible, worn and frayed at the edges, pathetic in its raggedness.

"A long time ago, my mother gave me this Bible," he said. "She
told me that as long as I carried it, and believed in it, no harm
could come to me, and I guess she was right. It was her first
Bible, and mine. It's grown old and ragged with me, and the water
and snow have faded it. I've come to sort of believe that mother
is always near this Book. I'd like you to have it, Josephine. It's
the only thing I've got to offer you on your birthday."