The words that came from the lips of Jacques made a great beating in her ears. Could it be so--what he was saying--that the "Great Man from America" had come to save all the Brothers of France? That soon, soon he would send Clément and Fernand and Alphonse back to the tiny house in the forest? That all the wicked men in the world would be no more? That the great and terrible noise would cease--forever? Jacques was very, very sure that he was right about it; he had read it all in a newspaper; he had walked miles and miles to hear men talk of nothing else. Claire René asked where the great man lived. "In Paris, ma petite." "And what does he look like--the brave one?" "He is grave and quiet, like a king." "And has he on his head the crown of gold?" "No, ma petite, but he has in his heart the Sons of France." "And Clément and Fernand and Alphonse also?" Claire René waited while Jacques passed his fingers through her hair. "Yes, ma petite," he said at last. Claire René wished that she had more hands and feet and lips and eyes and more than such a little body to hold her joy. She made circles of dancing about Jacques on their way back to the cottage. She said her happiness was so great that she might fly up into the sky and laugh from the tops of the trees. "Dear Jacques," she said as they paused at the dried garden patch, "do you think to-morrow they will come--my brothers?" Jacques shook his head. "Do you think one day from to-morrow?" Again Jacques shook his head. But Claire René was busy in her thoughts. She turned suddenly and threw her arms about him. "Will you again walk the miles of the forest for Claire René, will you?" "But--why--for what reason, ma petite?" She would send a letter! She would herself write to the "Great Man," and tell him about Clément and Fernand and Alphonse, tell him how good and brave they were, and about grand'mère and the silence of her eyes and ears, and about--Claire René looked frightened and clapped her fingers over her mouth. No! She must forever keep the secret about the telegrams. Telegrams meant sorrow; there must be only happiness in the house for the brothers. Long after twilight had fallen she pleaded with Jacques about the letter. By the firelight that same night she would write. Grand'mère had taught her to make the letters of many words; she knew what to say. In the first light of the day Jacques could be gone to the post. And then! Yes? Not until he finally nodded his head was she satisfied. Then she wondered why so suddenly he had become heavy with sadness. Why, when she watched him trudge off into the forest, had he seemed to carry a burden on his bent back? She thought: "Old people are like that. Grand'mère is like that; she, too, grows tired with the end of the day. They had so many long days behind them to remember--grand'mère and Jacques. And the days ahead of them?"