It was the old doctor who brought the news that the United States had declared war upon Germany. He came driving up in his old cabriolet, and shouting “_Vive la France! Vive les Américains!_” Lucie went out to greet him. “What is this? What is this?” she cried. “_Bon jour. Mlle. Demi-Américaine_,” said the doctor. “One half of you should be extra proud this day.” “Oh, why? why?” “Because your mother’s countrymen have specifically declared war upon Germany. We have always known they were with us in spirit, but now we have this resounding fact. Soon, soon you will see the Stars and Stripes, at the head of American regiments who will be marching with our men. Paris has gone mad with joy. We have always known that we must win one day, but this brings the good day that much nearer.” Lucie clasped her hands in delight. “The half of me that is American is very proud and glad,” she said, “and the other half is glad, too, not that those brave Americans must suffer, must die, but that their coming brings the end that much nearer.” “Where is my good friend Antoine Le Brun this morning?” asked the doctor, leading his old white horse around to a hitching post. “I will find him,” Lucie offered, and ran into the house calling: “Where are you, Grandpa Le Brun? The Americans are coming! The Americans are coming! The doctor has brought this good news.” She ran from room to room with her announcement, and after coming upon Mons. Le Brun at the back of the house, she sent him to join the doctor while she scurried down to Paulette whose spring work in the fields had begun. She found her in violent altercation with old Jules, for these two seldom missed a chance for argument, out of which, it must be confessed, Paulette usually emerged with flying colors. “Such news! Such news!” cried Lucie as she came within hearing. “The Americans are with us. Their troops will be with us immediately.” “Aha, my fine sir!” exclaimed Paulette, standing with arms akimbo and shaking her head. “What did I tell you?” “Zut! I don’t believe a word of it. That is all talk. They will never come. Mark my words.” Jules wagged a skinny and earth-stained forefinger under Paulette’s nose. “But it is true, I assure you,” persisted Lucie. “The doctor has just brought the news which he says is an absolute fact.” “Well, let it be a fact,” responded Jules. “Admit that they will come. What are they? Raw, untrained savages. It will take months if not years to get them into any sort of shape. This hue and cry of ‘the Americans are coming!’ sounds very well to those who are easily fooled, but I, for one, am too wise a bird to be caught with such chaff.” “A bird indeed,” scoffed Paulette contemptuously; “one of the variety that hisses in the barnyard and whose chief use is to supply feathers for beds.” She turned on her heel, leaving Jules stuttering with rage, and uttering epithets more forcible than polite.