In the stable were two milch cows and a young heifer. Indicating the latter, she said: “He has not seen her, either. When he comes home I am going to kill her, faire le bomb, and ask all the family.” The look of pride changed into a haunted, painful, far-away gaze: “Oh, dear, we shall all be women! Except my husband and Francois, my brother, all our men are dead—four of my brothers! Francois is the last. The Government sent him from the front to keep the family alive. Don’t you think France was good to us to do that?” When in hospital I met the grand dame from the nearby chateau. She harnessed her own horse and drove through the rain, on a wintry morning, to play the organ at early mass. She nursed a ward in the hospital through the day and returned home alone in the darkness to make her own supper. “Oh,” she said, “I don’t mind it, I do what I can. I was not brought up right or I could be of more use. Before the war, we had fifteen servants. They are now at war. We have only two left, a half-wit and a cripple.” “Do you know,” she said, “I have never heard the English marching song ‘Tipperary.’ I just love music. In Tours the other day, I saw it on sale, my hand was in my pocket before I knew. But I happened to think of our brave soldiers; they need so many things”— Noticing the troubled look on the usually serene countenance of a very good friend, I asked her: “Why those clouds?” “Oh,” she replied, “they have just called Gaston to the colors. His class is called up. You know how I have pinched and saved to bring that boy up right. Now, he must go and I cannot make myself feel glad. I ought to feel proud, but I cannot. I don’t feel right. Every time I look at him I think of my husband and his one leg.” During the early days of the war I was out with my landlady, whose calculating instinct in the matter of extra charges separated me from all my loose change. Going past the Gare d’Est Paris we noticed a crowd about a French soldier. He had a German helmet in his hand. Walking up to him, she said: “What is that?” “A German helmet, Madame.” “Did you get that?” “Yes, Madame.” “Did you get it yourself?” “Certainly, Madame.” “Here, take this, go back and get some more.” She passed her pocketbook over to the poilu. The soldier stared; the crowd stared; but the soldier was a thoroughbred. Crooking his elbow and sticking the helmet out on his index finger, he bowed: “Will Madame give me pleasure by accepting the helmet?” Would she! Boche helmets were scarce in those days. Beautiful Mademoiselles in that crowd would have given their souls to possess such a treasure! Neither they nor I know Madame. Her eyes looked level into those of the soldier as she demanded: “You are not a Parisian?” “No, Madame.” “To what province are you going?” “Brittany.” “When?” “At six o’clock tonight.” “Have you a wife?” “Yes, Madame.” “Will you do something for me?” “With the greatest pleasure!”