And when she gave back the bowl, the old woman set it
on the floor, and drew the girl's head to her breast.
And Drusilla lay there, crying softly, a lonely American mothered by
this indomitable old woman of France.
Days passed, days in which men came and men went and Drusilla sang to
them. And now new faces were seen among the tired and war-worn ones.
Eager young Americans, pressing forward towards the front, found a
countrywoman in the little town; and they wrote home about her. "She's
a beauty, by jinks, and when she sings it pulls the heart out of you.
She's the kind you want to say your prayers to."
So her fame went forth and took on gradually something of the
supernatural--her tall, straight slenderness, her steady eyes, her halo
of red hair grew to have a sort of sacred significance, like that of
some militant young saint.
Then came a day when Derry's regiment marched through the town to the
trenches, spent an interval, and came back, awed by what it had seen,
but undaunted.
Drusilla, sitting on the doorstep of the stone house, saw a tall figure
striding down the street. He stopped to speak to an old woman and
doffed his hat, showing a clipped silver-blond head.
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