at all. It remains to be seen whether it was by chance. But tell
me more about your sin. Did you let your wife, Josephine, know
what you were going to do? Did you tell her good-by, parting for
Switzerland?"

"Why, no! I did not dare. She would never have forgiven me.
So I slipped down to the post-office at Bar-sur-Aube and stole
a telegraph blank. It was ten days before my furlough was out. I
wrote a message to myself calling me back to the colors at once.
I showed it to her. Then I said good-by. I wept. She did not cry
one tear. Her eyes were stars. She embraced me a dozen times. She
lifted up each of the children to hug me. Then she cried: 'Go now,
my brave man. Fight well. Drive the damned boches out. It is for
us and for France. God protect you. _Au revoir!'_ I went down
the road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could not help it."

"And you were a dog," said the priest sternly. "That is what you
were, and what you remain unless you can learn to help it. You lied
to your wife. You forged; you tricked her who trusted you. You have
done the thing which you yourself say she would never forgive.
If she loves you and prays for you now, you have stolen that love
and that prayer. You are a thief. A true daughter of France could
never love a coward to-day."

"I know, I know," sobbed Pierre, burying his face in the weeds.
"Yet I did it partly for her, and I could not do otherwise."

"Very little for her, and a hundred times for yourself," said
the priest indignantly. "Be honest. If there was a little bit of
love for her, it was the kind of love she did not want. She would