At this moment a _panne_. The only thing in sight is a long line of war-supply wagons drawn by tired horses, and women and old men and children bending over their eternal piles of beet-root. But E. M. said, “Sooner than change that tire, I’ll bury the Ford by the road.” So we bumped and crawled along till we met a line of _camions_. The first was driven by a handsome, tall, very small-handed, extremely polite Frenchman, who knew Fords, having been four months with Piatt Andrew at the Field Service Ambulance in the rue Raynouard, and who agreed to change it for us. A hail-storm, like a pelting of diamonds, as sudden bursts of light caught it, came up in the middle of the operation, which was finally completed with expressions of mutual satisfaction. The shining storm was withdrawn like a curtain, showing the sun on the great stretches, and Dombasle with the smoke of its hundred chimneys was a thing of inexpressible beauty, while behind it were the great towers of St.-Nicolas du Port, for which we decided to make a dash. We got into it, through Dombasle, as a perfect rainbow rose from the Meurthe and disappeared into the horizon, where the gray-clad men with the pointed helmets are intrenched. “For luck,” said E. M. But I asked, “Whose luck?” the rainbow evidently being neutral. We had some difficulty in finding anything but the towers of the church. There is no square in front; tiny streets encircle it on all sides. But we at last got into the narrow street in front of the cathedral, which is called “_Des Trois Pucelles_,” in memory of the three young girls to whom St.-Nicolas gave a _dot_. I was not alone in remembering that he is the patron saint of those contemplating matrimony. The church is of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and among the largest of the Gothic churches of Lorraine. Swelling-breasted pigeons with gorgeous pink and red and green and purple upon their throats were nestled against the beautiful carvings of the gray portals, and much soft cooing was going on. Above the central door, in the _trumeau_, is a statue of the saint said to have been done by the brother of Ligier Richier, and I thought of the lovely Gothic fireplace by Ligier Richier himself taken from St.-Mihiel, and now at Ochre Court in Newport. Noble interior, though the pillars have had the beautiful sharpness of their chiseling blunted by much painting and whitewashing. There are remains of early frescoes on some of the croisillons, and near a door I found a tiny, ancient painting representing scenes in the life of St.-Nicolas, inclosed in glass in a modern varnished wooden frame. Somewhere in the pavement of the church is a certain potent slab, and she who steps upon it is married within the year. Its exact position is not known, but I told E. M. to take an exhaustive walk about and commend herself to heaven and the saint.