in directions for making their most cherished soups.

Sara Lee, going to a land where the meat was mostly horse and where
vegetables were scarce and limited to potatoes, Brussels sprouts and
cabbage, found herself the possessor of recipes for making such sick-room
dainties as mushroom soup, cream of asparagus, clam broth with whipped
cream, and from Mrs. Gregory, the wealthy woman of the church--green
turtle and consomme.

She was very busy and rather sad. She was helping Aunt Harriet to close
the house and getting her small wardrobe in order. And once a day she
went to a school of languages and painfully learned from a fierce and
kindly old Frenchman a list of French nouns and prefixes like this: _Le
livre, le crayon, la plume, la fenêtre_, and so on. By the end of ten
days she could say: "_La rose sent-elle bon?_"

Considering that Harvey came every night and ran the gamut of the
emotions, from pleading and expostulation at eight o'clock to black
fury at ten, when he banged out of the house, Sara Lee was amazingly
calm. If she had moments of weakness, when the call from overseas was
less insistent than the call for peace and protection--if the nightly
drawn picture of the Leete house, with tile mantels and a white bathroom,
sometimes obtruded itself as against her approaching homelessness, Sara
Lee made no sign.

She had her photograph taken for her passport, and when Harvey refused
one she sent it to him by mail, with the word "Please" in the corner.
Harvey groaned over it, and got it out at night and scolded it wildly;
and then slept with it under his pillows, when he slept at all.