. . The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. ’ ‘But Marthe, this is idiot. One cannot expect that soldiers can be sympathique to one they believe may be a French spy. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. If only you knew what this means to me!" "We do, lad," replied McClintock, gravely.
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