Lucie looked thoughtfully across at the neighboring garden. “Mons. Le Brun will not have to change his habits, but that other grandfather of Annette’s must do so, I suppose, for her uncles and cousins will go to the war, no doubt.” Her grandfather drew a quick sigh. “Yes, all of us can do our part in one way or another. Well, in my case it is not as if I were without experience. Come, let us go to those fowls, and then something else. One must not be an idler these days.” The two went to the little shed at the back of the garden where they found the grain to scatter for the waiting fowls. The pigeons, too must have their share. These were so tame that they perched on Lucie’s shoulder, ate from her hands, sat upon her arm when she held it out. All the time she chattered away, sometimes to her grandfather, sometimes to the creatures about her. The air was sweet and fresh coming from across gardens. Even the smoking factories could not overcome the odors of blossoming plants, while the clatter of machinery was less in evidence than the laughter of children, the rippling talk of young girls, the shouts of boys. This evening, however, there was less of laughter than usual. From so many of the houses had gone forth a father, a son, a brother, a husband to the war, and anxious foreboding filled the hearts of the older people. Lucie carried the empty basin into the house, leaving her grandfather with head thoughtfully bent and hands behind him to resume his pacing of the garden walk. Madame Du Bois was busy in the house taking upon herself some of those duties which were generally Paulette’s. “But, mamma,” said Lucie, seeing her in the dining-room, “I can set the table.” “So you can to-morrow,” said her mother, “but now I have done it, and there is nothing further to add to it.” Lucie viewed it critically. “I can gather some fresh flowers,” she offered. Her mother made no answer. Lucie looked over her shoulder as she went out. “One must have courage, mamma, so I will gather the very gayest and brightest blossoms to cheer us up.” She continued her way into the garden and was gravely contemplating roses and gillyflowers when she heard some one whistling a joyous air. For a moment she thought it was Jean, then she remembered that there was no more a Jean to be whistling and singing about the premises. She discovered, too, that the sound came from the other side of the wall. It was not Annette who was there. Annette never whistled. Presently the whistling ceased. Lucie began to arrange her bouquet, but before it was half completed she was aware of a pair of eyes fixed upon her, and looking up she saw above the wall a merry face smiling down at her. “Victor!” she cried. “Where did you come from?” “Tell me first,” returned the lad, “where is my cousin Annette.” “That I do not know. Isn’t she in the house?”