“Indeed! This is my ninth time since the Armistice. Not on my own account. I haven’t lost any one, thank God—but, like every one else, I’ve a lot of friends at home who have. Coming over as often as I do, I find it helps them to have some one just look at the—the place and tell them about it afterwards. And one can take photos for them, too. I get quite a list of commissions to execute.” She laughed nervously and tapped her slung Kodak. “There are two or three to see at Sugar Factory this time, and plenty of others in the cemeteries all about. My system is to save them up, and arrange them, you know. And when I’ve got enough commissions for one area to make it worth while, I pop over and execute them. It does comfort people.”
“I suppose so,” Helen answered, shivering as they entered the little train.
“Of course it does. (Isn’t it lucky we’ve got window-seats?) It must do or they wouldn’t ask one to do it, would they? I’ve a list of quite twelve or fifteen commissions here”—she tapped the Kodak again—“I must sort them out to-night. Oh, I forgot to ask you. What’s yours?”
“My nephew,” said Helen. “But I was very fond of him.”
“Ah yes! I sometimes wonder whether they know after death? What do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t—I haven’t dared to think much about that sort of thing,” said Helen, almost lifting her hands to keep her off.
“Perhaps that’s better,” the woman answered. “The sense of loss must be enough, I expect. Well, I won’t worry you any more.”
Helen was grateful, but when they reached the hotel Mrs. Scarsworth (they had exchanged names) insisted on dining at the same table with her, and after the meal, in the little, hideous salon full of low-voiced relatives, took Helen through her “commissions” with biographies of the dead, where she happened to know them, and sketches of their next of kin. Helen endured till nearly half-past nine, ere she fled to her room.
Almost at once there was a knock at her door and Mrs. Scarsworth entered; her hands, holding the dreadful list, clasped before her.
“Yes—yes—I know,” she began. “You’re sick of me, but I want to tell you something. You—you aren’t married are you? Then perhaps you won’t.... But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to tell some one. I can’t go on any longer like this.”