Lucie looked at him wildly for a moment, then she understood. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, then she ran sobbing to Paulette to hide her face on the good woman’s shoulder. “He is dead, grandfather is dead!” she faltered. “Oh, this cruel, cruel war, will it take everything from us?” “Courage, little one, courage,” whispered Paulette, patting her softly. “He was not young, the dear man. His time had come and the good God took him.” “Tell me,” said Lucie, turning her streaming eyes upon Victor. “Tell me all.” “This Gustave Foucher in whose cart your grandfather traveled, turned aside, as you already know, but, poor man, he turned the wrong way, for soon he found himself in the midst of bombardment. He could not go on; he could not go back. The Germans were in possession, shells were bursting, bombs falling. In hurrying to shelter your grandfather was struck by shrapnel. He lived on a few minutes. A quick death and an easy one.” “And how did you learn this, Mons. Victor?” asked Paulette. “I inquired in every town through which I passed, and at last I was told by those remaining in the town. They remembered Foucher quite well, and the old man who came with him and who was killed.” “And Gustave?” “Was sent into Germany by the Boches.” Lucie, who had recovered from her first violent fit of crying, said quietly, “I would rather my grandfather should die than be sent into Germany.” “One is not necessarily ill treated,” said Victor. “He would be made to work, and he would not feast on the fat of the land, to be sure.” “And I suppose those Boches had the benefit of our basket of food that was in the cart,” said Paulette, turning to Lucie. Sad as the occasion was, Victor could not withstand smiling, and even into Lucie’s eyes crept a less mournful look. It was so like Paulette to regret the food. “I suppose you have seen nothing of my Jean,” said Paulette, changing the subject. Victor shook his head. “Do you hear from him?” he asked. “Not often. Once or twice. He was safe two weeks ago. He is a good boy, that Jean, and when he gets his _permissionaire_ he will come to see me, though I wish he might find me elsewhere than in Paris.” “Then you do not like this fine city.” Paulette flung out her hands contemptuously. “It is a den of confusion, not so bad now, perhaps since there are fewer vehicles, but I do not find myself at home, and I would rather work in the fields than in a vile laundry.” “Is that what you are doing?” Victor asked in surprise. “One must do what one can. I do not care to beg nor to live upon charity. It is necessary to have clothing as well as food. This moment that child needs shoes, or will soon.” “Does your father know of this?” Victor asked Lucie.