Lucie did not dare continue the subject with all the possibilities it suggested, but she did say, “Pom Pom will go. He must. Nothing, no one, shall persuade me to leave him behind.” Her grandfather looked down doubtfully at the little dog crouched at Lucie’s feet and gazing from one to the other with wistfully questioning eyes. “He can walk, you know,” Lucie went on beseechingly. “He will be no trouble at all. I shall not need to carry him.” “But to feed him.” “He shall have a share of my food.” “It is a long way, dear child, and we may want for food ourselves.” “Where is it that we go?” “To Paris if we can get there. It seems the best place, for there we shall find friends and work to do.” “And we walk all that distance?” “Part of the way at least. The trains are not running to this town, for many of the stations and much of the railroad is destroyed. Everything is in confusion.” Lucie looked from the window to see coming down the street a procession of men, women, children, all sorts of vehicles, each laden with what could be carried. “The first consideration is to get away from here as quickly as possible,” her grandfather went on. “Later we may be fortunate enough to find some better means of travel than on foot, but now it is the only means. Come.” He slung a strap over his shoulder, grasped his stick and started toward the door. To the strap was secured a valise, and he bore another in his hand. He did not cast one look behind, but went on to the gate, Lucie following with Pom Pom at her heels. In the rear came Paulette burdened with baskets, packages, bundles done up in handkerchiefs. Over her head and shoulders she wore the little black crocheted shawl which she was seldom without. She had on stout shoes, a blue stuff skirt, a jacket and an apron with capacious pockets. From her waist dangled a pair of headless fowls which she had not taken time to dress. From her neck, hanging by a stout cord, was appended a bottle of wine. One basket she carried on her head. From it protruded a long loaf of bread. “I will close the door, Paulette,” said Lucie, turning back. Paulette was too weighed down by her impedimenta to give her accustomed shrug, though she said. “What matter? Those boches will enter anyhow.” Lucie felt a sudden sensation as of a clutch at her throat at this remark and as she saw Mousse placidly washing his face where he sat on the wall in the sunshine. “Adieu, adieu, my dear Mousse, dear home, dear garden,” she whispered. A little whimper from Pom Pom was followed almost immediately by an ominous roar of guns. The enemy was coming nearer. At the crash of a bomb exploding in a just deserted street the long line of refugees hastened their steps.