“Well, keep that casque in your hand until you arrive in Brittany. Then give it to your wife. She will always love you for it and your children will never forget such a father!” Walking away, Madame dropped into a silent mood. I looked at her curiously. Was she sorry she had given away her money? Did she regret not accepting that highly-prized helmet, or was she thinking of the pleasure that gift would give the soldier’s wife? Suddenly she turned and said: “Well, one thing is certain.” “What is certain?” “You will have to pay my car fare home.” [Illustration] The self-sacrifice and devotion of the women permeates the atmosphere—from the lowest to the highest. It is contagious. It is evident, even to a stranger, and it restores his faith in human nature. She is the other half of the poilu. He excels in courage and fortitude. She completes him with an untiring zeal. One beautiful, romantic feature of French army life is the adoption of soldiers by god-mothers. In one instance, a girl fifteen years of age, having enough money, adopted a half dozen. One of them proved to be a Senegalize, who wished to take the young lady back to Africa to complete his harem! [Illustration: CROIX DE GUERRE Famous French War Cross The star denotes an individual citation, “John Bowe, an American citizen, engaged in the active army, who in spite of his age (past the limits of military service) has given an expression of the most absolute devotion. Upon the front since the 9th of May, 1915, he has always volunteered for the dangerous missions and the most perilous posts.” ] The uncertainties and possibilities of the situation distract the soldier’s mind from his real, staring troubles. His thoughts are directed into pleasant channels. The lady sends him little comforts, extra food, or money and, maybe, invites him to spend his furlough at her residence. She always does, if he is from invaded territory. If they prove congenial, friendship sometimes ripens into love and love into marriage. It relieves the lonesome isolation of the soldier, and gives the woman a direct, personal interest in the war. In the spring of 1916 I stood at the Spouters’ Corner in Hyde Park, London, where Free Speech England allows its undesirables to express themselves. Here the authorities classify, label and wisely permit each particular crank or freak to here blow off surplus gas. If suppressed, it might explode or fester and become a menace.