We then went up-stairs to a class-room of older boys, and after we had spoken to the schoolmaster I noticed a handsome boy with shining eyes and a firm mouth. The master, who was new and wished to become acquainted with his pupils, had written the following questions on the blackboard: “Whence do you come? What was the occupation of your parents? Are you happy at Molitor?” etc. Well, that little boy of eleven, when asked what he had written, turned out to be a sort of cross between Demosthenes and Gambetta, and read from his slate an impassioned apostrophe about “_le flot envahisseur des barbares, quand délivrera-t-on la France martyrisée de la main destructrice de l’ennemi?_” and to the question, “Are you happy at Molitor?” the answer was, “_Oui, on est bien à Molitor, mais rien ne remplace le foyer; quand on a perdu cela, on a tout perdu_.” The face of the master showed some embarrassment at any restrictions on happiness at Molitor, but the boy, whose eyes had begun to flame, continued: “_O quand viendra le jour de la Revanche, le jour sacré de la délivrance?_” and wound up with something about his blood and the blood of his children. His father, who was dead, had been employed in the customs at Avricourt, and his mother now cooked in one of the Molitor buildings. Then we passed through a room where some fifty women were sorting and stemming hops; the strong, warm odor enveloped us and the eyes of the women followed us. Then out across the immense courtyard to one of the dormitory buildings. Rows of beds, and above them, around the walls, a line of shelves on which is every kind of small article that could be carried in flight, from trimmings for Christmas trees to shrines and little strong-boxes. As we entered the first room, Madame Mirman said to an old woman with deep, soft eyes: “_Comment ça va-t-il aujourd’hui?_” And with such grace she answered: “_Oh, Madame, c’est la vieillesse, et on n’en guérit pas._” Another woman, nursing a rheumatic knee, when asked about her son, who had been at Molitor on a three days’ permission, put her cracked old hand over her heart and said, “_Voir un peu sa personne fait oublier tout_.” In all the big rooms near the long windows women sit bent over embroidery and passementerie frames. One of them, with thin hair and horny hands, was working with extreme rapidity on a bright _pailleté_ strip for an evening gown, a design of silver lilies on white tulle, in such contrast to her worn face and bent figure. Many were working at lovely and intricate tea-cloths, with designs of the Lorraine cross, and thistle, oak and acorn designs, that had been handed down through generations. Some of the work Madame Mirman is able to dispose of directly, while some is contracted for with big shops. When we came down-stairs there was a great sound of young feet and voices and various noises of well-cared-for children, just dismissed from the seats of learning, coming up the stone stairway to their dinner.