Mere man notices her dainty figure, her happy disposition, her cheery, outspoken manner, her charm and goodness of heart, the utter absence of vulgarity and ill-temper. Her tears are shed in solitude. Laughter is for her friends. He admires her at a distance, because she is sheltered in the home until marriage. The French man must pass the family council before becoming an accepted suitor. He consults them in his business ventures. His troubles become theirs when Mademoiselle changes to Madame and is his comrade as well as a continued sweetheart. She devotes her whole time and attention to him. Her clever, home-making instinct is combined with good business sense. She is a valuable partner in life’s great enterprise. One of the most beautiful sights in France is, on a Sunday afternoon the poilu home on furlough, satisfied to drink a bottle or two of wine with his family, and rest. He did not want to see anyone else. But she insists he must see grandmother and sister-in-law, drop into the cafe and inquire about old comrades, then, enjoy a walk out into the country. In the gathering twilight Madame conducts her straggling brood home, her hands full of flowers, her eyes full of love—the little doll-like children, with long, flowing hair, romping nearby. The poilu has lost that dark, brooding look. That little touch of Nature and the woman diverted his mind from suffering and revived his sentiment. She sent him back to the front with a smile on her lips—hiding the dread of her heart. The thought of peace is ever with her—she longs for it. But her conscience will not permit her to ask it. She thinks of the thousands of graves that dot the hillsides with the cross at the head. She will suffer the torments of hell rather than that they shall have died in vain. Their little savings have been used up. The clothes are worn thin. She works, slaves to keep the wolf from the door. She manages to send an occasional five-franc note to her poilu. She labors in munition factories, the tramways, the postal service, in the fields, replacing the man, while cows and dogs do the work of the horses, who, like the men, are on the front. She wears wooden shoes and pulls hand-carts about the street. She drives the milch cow that plows the land, cleans the cars and wipes the engines on the railroad, cooks the food and nurses the wounded and sick in hospitals, does clerical work in the commissary department and military bureaus—chasing out the fat slackers who were strutting in the rear.