Outside, across the street, is a little pergola effect made of boarding, where one can sit and look out across the softly rolling, wooded hills. In it are a table and a few chairs and some pots of flowers. We deposited our tea-things there, and were starting out to make the tour of the village, when the mayor, in shirt sleeves, loose suspenders, and slipping trousers (his wife was killed in the 1915 bombardment of Lunéville and his son fell in the 1914 fighting in Vitrimont), came to welcome us and do the inevitable stamping of our safe-conducts. We then proceeded to the old church, one of the first things to be restored, so that its delicious fifteenth-century vaultings and window-tracings would be beyond further damage from exposure to the weather. One of the things _not_ hurt was the dado running around the interior in the form of painted cloth folds by a misguided nineteenth-century _curé_. War, with its usual discriminating touch, had left _that_. In the vestibule are some small, perfect Louis XV holy-water fonts in the form of shells upheld on angels’ heads. A celebrated baptismal font was removed to Paris. We then went to the _maison forte_, as the peasants call what had been a sort of château, the dwelling of the “first family” of the place. Its medieval tower was battered beyond repair, and the house itself pretty well damaged, while some of the rooms still had charming bits of paneling, and the locks and latches of the doors were perfect examples of eighteenth-century wrought-iron work. In one of the large rooms, whose ceiling was broken in by a shell, was a lovely old fireback under a marble mantel with the arms of the Counts of Vitrimont. By a north window was sitting a woman working at an embroidery screen with a brilliant green and silver design; an old man with palsied head was near. The school also has been rebuilt. A rosy-faced young schoolmistress received us, and two little boys kept to do their _pensums_ told us the name of the President of the United States, and showed us Washington _and_ San Francisco on the map hanging in the room. This having been satisfactorily gone through with, the punished little boys, with the usual luck of the wicked, were given chocolates by E. M. and dismissed; then we walked out into the little cemetery, approached by a narrow pathway of arching sycamores. It looks out toward the ancient forest of Vitrimont; in between are more green, undulating fields ripening with the 1917 harvest. The walls of the cemetery are battered and broken and monuments and gravestones are overturned. There was furious hand-to-hand fighting there, and in those first August days the long dead again mingled with the living. I passed down by broken, sun-baked walls, reading the names on the crosses as I went, and these are some of them: _Lieut. Jeannot, 26ème Infanterie, aspirant—Un soldat inconnu—_ _Haye, Louis, Sergent—28 soldats—_