those dangerous waters the thing which stands out most clearly in my remembrance is their loyalty to each other, the friendly spirit of the fine, clean sailor lads, the mutual respect for each other of officers and crews, the unswerving belief of both in their ships and commanders; finally, the faith and complete devotion of every man in the fleet to Sims, their Admiral.

I shall not soon forget my last view of the fleet. Looking down from a high hill behind the town, I could see the destroyers that had cruised with us lying like tired dogs on the harbor's bosom. Far out on the heads signal lights began to wink and blink - no doubt the tale of a submarine. From the heights to my left the Admiralty station answered. Then, very slowly, a destroyer opened one eye and blinked a response. Shortly thereafter three slim, dark shapes slid down stream and headed to sea.

I was for home, but Sims's captains were again out on the job.

THE PROMISE 1

FREDERIC BOUTET

[Frederic Boutet is one of the chief French writers of short stories who have come into prominence since the beginning of the World War. His especial field is the people who stay behind and do not go to the front, as is shown by the title of one of his volumes of war stories, "Those Who Wait for Them." The story below first appeared in the pages of the New York Tribune, and is an admirable example of the simplicity and delicacy of the best French short stories.]

The afternoon was wearing on. The threat of a coming storm had deepened the shade of the forest as the soldier who was following the wooded path debouched into a large clearing. He recognized this at once, remembering the description of it which had been given to him, and he also recognized by its ivy-covered roof the house which he was seeking. In haste he crossed the clearing and, as the first drops of rain imprinted themselves in the dust of the path, he knocked at the door, which was promptly opened.

"M. Maray?" he asked.

"Papa is not here; he has gone to town," answered a fresh. voice. "But if you wish to see his assistant, he lives only a little distance away."

A young girl had appeared on the doorstep, followed by a huge dog, who growled and whom she told to keep quiet. She seemed to be about sixteen or seventeen years old. In her gray cloth dress she looked tall and well developed. Her clear face showed lines that were still childish; but her eyes were serious, calm, serene. With her hand she brushed from her brow some unruly strands of chestnut hair.

1 From "Tales of Wartime France," translated by William J. McPherson. Copyright, 1918, hy Dodd, Mead & Co., Inc. Reprinted by permission.

"I wanted to speak first to M. Maray," the soldier stammered.

On seeing her he had recoiled involuntarily, and she now gazed at him with astonishment, for he was obviously and painfully embarrassed, and that didn't go well with his great height, his vigorous features, and his frank and open expression. "If I could come back again," he murmured. "But that is impossible. I must take my train this evening. And after all it is you you are the one with whom I must speak."

The young girl had scarcely caught those last words, so violent was the beating of the rain. She asked him to enter the house, and closed the door after him. They both remained standing in a large, dimly lighted room.

"I see that you do not know," he began, feeling his way. "I thought that you might already have had some news. I wanted to break it first to your father. But I am obliged to return at once, and I must keep the promise which I gave. I came from the front, you know. My name is Jean Vautier, and I was the comrade of one whom you know well. Yes Paul Tullier. He is wounded gravely, very gravely —" "He is not Tell me the

"Mon Dieu!" she cried. truth!"

He made no answer, realizing that she understood. He was grieved and annoyed that he should have told his tragic news so abruptly, when he had intended to lead up to it more circumspectly. Venturing to look at the young girl, he saw that she had turned pale and that her cheeks were wet with tears. But he had a feeling of surprise. There was no trace there of that terrible despair which he had feared to see. He began again, in a low voice:

"I promised him to bring here, if anything should happen to him, some of his effects as souvenirs. Here they are.” On the table between them he placed a little package, tied with a black ribbon.

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Poor Louise! What a misfortune!" murmured the young girl.

"Louise? You are not Louise? You are not Paul's fiancée ?"

"No, no," she answered, shuddering in confusion and anguish. "Louise is my sister. She is twenty years old. They were engaged before the war. I was only fourteen then. Poor Louise! She loved him so much! These last days she has been very uneasy. She had received no letter for a long time. She went to town with papa to try to get some news."

"You are Emilie?" said the soldier. "He talked to me about you but as if you were a child."

"Yes, I am Emilie," she replied.

After a moment of silence he began again, motioning to the package:

"That is for your sister. He said that I must bring it here if anything happened to him. He fell beside me, killed on the spot. As soon as I was able to do so I kept my promise. He was my best comrade, Tullier; for months we were together. When he made me swear to come here, he offered to do the same thing for me, if I should fall. Only, in my case, it was not worth while."

"Why?" asked Emilie, raising her eyes.

"Why?" he returned, with a forced smile. "Because I am alone in the world — absolutely alone. I have neither parents, nor relatives, nor fiancée - nobody who cares for me. In short, I am without any personal attachments. And even down there, you know, there are moments when it is hard to have to say that. But I am talking about things which do not interest you.'

She said softly that they did interest her. Then the soldier, after a little hesitation, ventured another question.

"Have you a fiancé down there?"

She shook her head and her face reddened. They stood there silent, both under the spell of a vague feeling of tenderness, with which was mingled the sadness of mourning, evoked by the poor souvenirs which lay on the table between them. The soldier thought confusedly of the death which he had so

narrowly escaped, and he had an imperious desire to live and to love, the image in which that desire flowered being that of a budding young girl with chestnut hair. But he did not dare to put his thoughts into words. He merely said:

"I must go. But I should like to ask a favor of you before I go. Will you allow me to tell a comrade, if anything happens to me, to send you some things which I shall leave behind? That will not displease you?"

She looked at him, her gray eyes filled with pity and emotion, and, trembling a little, answered:

"You will come back

I am sure you will come back.” Hesitating to read the true meaning of her look and tone, he said very softly:

"I shall come back here?"

She nodded assent. He took her hand, bent across the table on which the little package lay and awkwardly kissed her on the forehead. Then he went away in the dusk, following the path through the woods, which smelt of verdure and freshly moistened earth.