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The unbuttoned tunic was soaked with
fresh blood oozing from a terrible shrapnel
wound in the chest.
“The gentleman is a doctor,” said
Josephine, covering the wound with a clean towel
which slowly turned red as she spoke.
“Monsieur le Docteur, shall I soon get
well?” murmured the soldier.
The Doctor watched his heaving chest
and his superficial, irregular breathing, and
said:
“Yes, soon.”
“He is only twenty-five,” said Josephine,
“he is a luthier.”
“A luthier! A violin-maker!”
“I never thought he would live through
the night,” said the Mayor in a low voice to
his colleague. “But I must say that if
anything his pulse seems to me a little
better this morning, and I do think he is
losing less blood. If only his heart can hold
out.”
“She is the image of her father,” said
Josephine, gently stroking the little girl’s
fair hair.
“Do you think so, Josephine?” said the
wife. “I think the boy is much more like
his father,” she said, tenderly resting her
tear-filled eyes on the rosy baby asleep on
her lap. “If you knew what a wonderful
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