“He is an imbecile, that,” remarked Paulette as she walked away to another part of the field. “I am getting very tired of him. These Americans, when do they come, and how soon will they rid the land of those Boches?” “I suppose one cannot tell, but the doctor evidently believes it will be soon. I have heard him say that the moral effect upon the exhausted armies would be as great as the physical. He has been talking much of the Americans coming in and has put great faith upon them.” “Then I suppose one may begin to think of returning home.” “Oh, Paulette, do you really mean it?” “Why not. Have I ever decided to remain here for the rest of my life? Not at all. It is well enough, this, but where I was born is better, and it is where I should choose to die.” “But they say there is nothing there. What shall we do to go back to mere handfuls of earth, holes in the ground?” “There will be more than that, I fancy. There has been destruction, of course, but I have asked and I am told that our little town has not been so hardly dealt with as some others.” “If you go, then I go, too.” “You will be better off here, more comfortable.” “I do not care for that. I want to be there to help resurrect our home and be on the spot when my mother comes. She will come, Paulette, she will, she will. Odette believes it and what Odette believes generally happens.” Paulette struck her hoe into the brown mold several times before she answered with a little twist of a smile: “Even Odette may not be counted upon as infallible.” “But you admit she is generally right.” “Generally, yes, generally, but not always.” Lucie pondered on this truth rather mournfully, before she said, with a sigh: “If one must lose faith, Paulette, one may as well give up and die.” “Very true, _chérie_. Keep your faith. I only wish to prepare you for the worst if it should come.” Lucie shook her head. “No, I shall continue to follow Odette’s philosophy. One can never be prepared for the worst. If it comes, it is no harder a blow than if one expected it; if it does not come, one will then not have wasted time in grieving.” She turned away and went back to the house to learn that another piece of news had come with the morning’s mail: Annette was going on to Marseilles with her husband, and would stay with him there until he should receive orders. He might be sent to Italy instead of to Turkey. Close upon this news came a letter from Miss Lowndes to Lucie. The two had kept up a correspondence all this time, but this letter was of special interest, since it told of a certain undertaking in which Miss Lowndes would take part. “We are trying to restore the evacuated towns in the devastated areas,” she wrote, “and I am hoping that I will be sent to your native place. We hear that it is not so badly wrecked as some, and that some of the people have stayed on. We shall do our best to make these comfortable and the others too who are fast returning.”