perhaps remembering a treasure left in her car, would rise, leave them
to eat, feel her way to the garage, and back again to the safety of her
room with a tin of sweetened condensed milk under her arm. So low in
comfort had she sunk it needed but this to make her happy. She had never
known so sharp, so sweet a sense of luxury as that with which she
prepared the delicacy she had seized by her own cunning. It had not
taken her long to learn the possibilities of the American Y.M.C.A., the
branch in Bar, or any other which she might pass in her travels.

Shameless she was as she leant upon the counter in some distant village,
cajoling, persuading, spinning some tale of want and necessity more
picturesque, though no less actual, than her own. Secret, too, lest one
of her companions, over-eager, should spoil her hunting ground.

Sitting with her leather coat over her shoulders, happy in her solitude,
she would drink the cup of Benger's Food which she had made from the
milk, and when it was finished, slide lower among the rugs, put out the
lights, and listen to the rustle of the rats in the wall.

"Mary Bell is getting married," said a clear voice in the hut.

"To the Wykely boy?" answered a second voice, and in a sudden need of
sound the two voices talked on, while the six listeners upon their
stretchers saw in the dark the life and happiness of Mary Bell blossom
before them, unknown and bright.

The alarm clock went off with a scream at five.

"Why, I've hardly been asleep!" sighed Fanny, bewildered, and, getting
up, she lit the lamp and made her coffee. Again there was not time to