That afternoon she went to her cellar, and took the faithful shears which had severed so many bandages, and put them pitilessly at work on her crown of beauty. The hair fell to the ground in rich strands, darker by a little, and softer far, than the straw on which it rested. Then she gathered it up into one of the aged illustrated papers that had drifted out to the post from kind friends in Furnes. She wrapped it tightly inside the double page picture of laughing soldiers, celebrating Christmas in the trenches. And she carried it outside behind the black stump of a house which they called their home, and threw it on the cans that had once contained bully-beef. She was a little heart-sick at her loss, but she had no vanity. As she was stepping inside, the Doctor came down the road.
He stopped at sight of her.
"Oh, I am sorry," he said.
"I don't care," she answered, and braved it off by a little flaunt of her head, though there was a film over her eyes.
"And did you keep a lock for me?" he asked.
"You are joking," she replied.
"I was never more serious," he returned. She shook her head, and went down into the cellar. The Doctor walked around to the rear of the house.
A few minutes later, he entered the cellar.
"Good-bye," he said, holding out his hand, "I'm going up the line to Nieuport. I'll be back in the morning." He turned to climb the steps, and then paused a moment.
"Beautiful hair brings good luck," he said.