Lucie lost no time in running out to Paulette with this letter. She was so out of breath and read so fast that Paulette was bewildered. “Stop, stop, my little one,” she cried. “I cannot keep up with this. Begin over again.” Lucie began reading more slowly, Paulette making queer muttered exclamations as she continued. At the end the good woman wiped her eyes, then clasped her hands and cast a look heavenward. “At last,” she murmured. “_Le bon Dieu_ restores us at last. _Eh bien_, my child, I am ready.” “What shall we do first, Paulette, what shall we do?” Paulette considered. “We write two letters, one to your father, one to the American young lady. We ask your father if he will permit that you accompany me and Odette back to the home. We ask the young lady when she departs and where we may join her. Then we wait for replies.” “Excellent, Paulette. How much good sense you have. I will write these letters immediately, and get them off as soon as possible. In the meantime I will talk to Grandpa Le Brun and he will tell the others.” She started off, then came running back to ask: “Paulette, what about the money? Shall we have any to begin on?” “I have all the wages I have earned here, or nearly all. Odette has hers, and then there is my allotment.” Paulette always talked very grandly of her allotment, but considering that the pay of a common soldier was but a sou a day, one can estimate that the amount paid her as mother of a _poilu_ could not be very munificent. “I have my allotment, too,” Lucie made the statement, “and of course papa will contribute what he can, just as he pays for my board here. We shall do very well, I believe.” She went off to write her letters, and it may be stated that she left out no argument in pleading her cause. Then she took her confidence to Mons. Le Brun. He looked quite aghast when she laid the plan before him. “But, my dear child,” he exclaimed, “this will never do in the world. The place is not yet safe. It is in a condition most wretched, most pathetic. The discomforts will be intolerable for you. Why not consent to remain with us until the war is over, and then if you must go back wait till things are in better condition?” But Lucie was deaf to all these arguments. “It will have to depend altogether upon what my father says,” she maintained. “As for me I am as able as Mlle. Lowndes or any one to endure privations. If she, an American, can do this for France must I be deprived of what is plainly a duty?” So it was left to hear what Captain Du Bois would say, and Lucie possessed her soul in patience.