Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris

applauded, and particularly the provoking and coquettish damsel, whose auburn curls hid the red hair of a sapper lance-corporal. Her beautiful frocks, rich falsetto voice, and twinkling silken-clad legs, stirred the other ranks to enthusiasm. The hut rang alternately to loud laughter and hearty rendering of choruses or was bathed in audiblesilent sadness as the concert party rang the changes on topical jokes—not always in the best taste—popular songs and sentimental airs.
    Berney joined softly in the choruses, and Rawley, with his head slightly sideways so that unobserved he could see her profile in the radiance from the stage, listened greedily to the unfamiliar music of a woman’s voice.
    â€œWhy are you watching me?” she asked suddenly, in a low voice without removing her eyes from the stage.
    He laughed guiltily at being caught. “Because—you are too good to be true,” he said at last.
    She turned her head slightly, and he saw her eyes for a moment bright in the shadow of her hat. Then she looked back at the stage without replying; but he could have sworn that the arm that rested against his had pressed a fraction of a millimetre closer.
    The success of the evening was undoubtedly “Roses in Picardy.” It was sung by a man with a really good voice, and the leading lady sang the second verse and chorus off stage. The plaintive, haunting air stirred the starved feelings of that audience of exiles, and after the last verse and chorus which were sung by both characters on the stage, the girl’s falsetto blending harmoniously with the rich baritone, the applause was deafening.
    The concert ended with the singing of the national anthem; the doors were thrown open, and the crowd of men pushed slowly through into the darkness and cool air outside.
    The road back across the stream was stippled with bars of light from the moon that played hide and seek amongthe bordering trees. The pulsating drone of German ’planes came faintly from a distance, and a pale pencil of light, distinguishable only by its movement, was searching the luminous haze above the dark silhouettes of the trees.
    â€œJerry up!” cried Piddock cheerfully. He paused in a patch of moonlight, and with upturned face began to chant: “Moon, moon, serenely shining, don’t go in too soon. . . .”
    The two girls joined in softly, and they moved along the deserted road four abreast singing. Rawley tucked Berney’s arm into his, and she did not withdraw it. Piddock began ‘Roses in Picardy,’ and they sang it through very earnestly and feelingly, the two girls singing the second verses and chorus as had been done by the concert party. At the end of it there was an embarrassed silence which lasted till, all too soon, they reached the other village.
    Piddock and Mary Hamilton were left to say goodbye to each other outside her cottage billet, and Rawley and Berney went on alone. They walked in silence with steps that became slower and slower as they approached her billet. Rawley was acutely conscious that the few minutes left to him with her were running out second by second in the silence of the moonlit village street.
    â€œGood fellow, Piddock,” he said at last.
    Berney nodded agreement. “Mary is an awfully good sort, too,” she said.
    Rawley agreed. “A good pair,” he added, with an embarrassed laugh.
    They had turned up the dark, narrow lane that led to her billet. She stopped in the shadow of a small house andpatted the plaster wall. “Home—somewhere in France,” she said.
    He was silent. Time was up, and in deep shadow her face was but a vague blur. Behind him the apex of a cottage gable end, projecting into the moonlight, gleamed like a Chinese lantern above the dark trench of the lane.
    Her voice seemed to break the silence reluctantly. “Goodbye, and thanks awfully.”
    He did not reply, and she moved slowly towards the