The figures of the narrative are for the most part only outlined against this background of vividly remembered things. But however faint the tracery, the character clearly emerges. Whether it be Madame Marthe, or the apache girl Alice, or Claire, or the old Curé who was going to preach a fierce sermon until his eyes fell upon the pathetic upward look of his congregation, and especially of Madelon, and then forgot all his harsh words--from beginning to end the various figures live and move before our eyes. The record is sad of course; it could not be otherwise than full of a keen pathos almost unrelieved. But there is never any false sentiment nor any touch of the vulgar or commonplace. Mrs. Mackay's book is the work of a sincere and genuine artist. W. L. COURTNEY. PART I From a House on a Road to Paris From a House on a Road to Paris Sunday, July 26th, 1914 When we came back from Mass, up from the village by the rue du Château and through the park and the garden, the yesterday's papers were arrived from Paris. I delayed down in the parterres, it was so beautiful. There had been rain, and the sunshine was golden and thick on all the wet sweet things, the earth of the paths, the box edges, the clipped yews, the grass of the lawns, the roses and heliotrope and petunias in the stately garden beds. There is a certain smell in old formal gardens, that seems to me always to mean France. It is like the stab of an arrow. I feel it, swiftly, in my heart, and stop and hold my breath, and say, "This is France." The news in the papers was strange. We thought we would go to the village, to the Place, and feel what the village felt. We went along the terrace and around between the south tower and the moat to the entrance court, and across the moat bridge, where the watch-dogs were chained one on either side, to the green court, and out of the big wrought-iron, vine-covered gates, to the Place aux Armes. All the village was there in its Sunday dress, under the lime trees. The swallows were flying, high about the Dungeon Tower and low across the big old grassy cobbles of the Place. They were crying their strange little cry. I thought, "They are calling for storm." And yet the sky was blue and gold behind the Dungeon Tower. We went to get the papers in the little dark shop that smells of spices and beeswax and shoe leather. I asked: What did Monsieur Créty think of the chances of war? He shrugged his old shoulders, and said he had some fine fresh chocolate and nougat out from Paris. We went back and read the papers and ate the chocolates and nougat on the terrace. A host of little white butterflies kept clouding over the terrace steps, between the pots of roses and heliotrope. There was a great brief thunderstorm while we were at lunch, and then the sun came out.