life. But there is a sense of duty in us all that speaks so we cannot mistake its voice.' He looked at West, considering his sad face, and recalled some story he had heard of his having been married, and having lost his wife when very young. To divert his thoughts, which were evidently remorseful, Macarthy continued—
'The saddest tale I ever heard of a man's sense of duty was told me by a German friend, who had written it out as he knew it. He called it "A Daughter of France." If you would like to hear it, I will try and tell it to you word for word.' West leaned back in his chair refilling his pipe as Macarthy began.
A strange thing had happened to Babette, a daughter of France; she had fallen in love with an enemy of her country. The big German had passed by her window every morning for weeks, and she had looked upon him with dislike and disdain. She told herself she hated him because he was the enemy of her people. Every time he came to her window her head was bent over her work, and every time he passed her eyes were lifted to follow him. Babette never cared to
