I simply couldn't believe it. Why, those two are perfect kids themselves--little and rosy-cheeked, scared to death of Mme. H----, but often giggling apart in corners. No one giggles, I can tell you, when you mention the war, and it's only because they've been blessed with sunny natures that they can ever seem light-hearted. Their children, being in the war zone, seem a thousand miles away from them, because, even if Mélanie and Maria could afford the trip oftener, they couldn't get the military permit to go through more than once a year. They can't earn anything in the invaded district, and Heaven knows Paris is the worst place to move the whole family to, who are now fairly well off in the country. So here they are, Mélanie and Maria, working their legs off, doing all the chamber work, waiting on table and odd jobs for fourteen people--for the princely sum of six dollars a month and tips. Louise, the cook, is Mélanie's aunt, a jolly soul, and one fine cook. She lets me come into the kitchen any time, and gives me a hot apple fritter or some grilled carrots. I found it was customary to give ten francs for the three maids to divide among them each month--three francs apiece--sixty cents for a month's hard labor. I gave them twelve francs, and they were tickled to death. Then through the Vestiaire I got some warm things for Mélanie's and Maria's children for Christmas--a coat and dress for the little girl, and a doll and a purse filled with chocolate money covered with tinfoil (the kind Father used to enchant me with in East Orange days--he's had to keep following it up, poor dear). Then for the little boy a coat and tiny trousers and blouse and necktie, and tin soldiers and candy. Louise has a little niece to whom I sent a dress and a darling doll's tea-set--I used to have a set like it for my big Jean. Well, I'm sure the kids were pleased, and I know that the mothers have been beaming ever since. Mélanie puts a hot-water bottle in my bed every night now. In the morning it is very dark, and I am correspondingly sleepy. She knocks at my door and says, "Sept heures et demie. Mademoiselle,--la journée commence," and I turn over and in desperation sing (like Charles Woody), "Ferme la fenêtre, pour l'amour de Dieu!" Then I get up in the cold and light my candle--Madame won't turn on the electricity in the morning--and the day does commence. At night the light goes off at eleven, so I not only dress by yellow candle-light, but write by it also--as I'm doing now.