When August went by, with no letters save Harvey's, begging her to come
back, she gave up at last. In the little church on Sundays, with Jennie
on one side and Aunt Harriet on the other, she voiced small silent
prayers--that the thing she feared had not happened. But she could not
think of Henri as not living. He was too strong, too vital.

She did not understand herself those days. She was desperately unhappy.
Sometimes she wondered if it would not be easier to know the truth, even
if that truth comprehended the worst.

Once she received, from some unknown hand, a French journal, and pored
over it for days with her French dictionary, to find if it contained any
news. It was not until a week later that she received a letter from
Mabel, explaining that she had sent the journal, which contained a
description of her hospital.

All of Harvey's Sunday she spent in trying to bring her courage to the
point of breaking the silence he had imposed on her, but it was not
until evening that she succeeded. The house was empty. The family had
gone to church. On the veranda, with the heavy scent of phlox at night
permeating the still air, Sara Lee made her confession. She began at
the beginning. Harvey did not stir--until she told of the way she had
stowed away to cross the channel. Then he moved.

"This fellow who planned that for you--did you ever see him again?"