Jean, who had begun to prove that his real self was only lying dormant beneath a shroud of sorrow, was triumphantly happy as the bugler, and one day suggested that they have a tank,—he had seen one on a battle-field. An old tin can was then procured from Sam, which had done duty in holding chicken-feed. It was now made to roll, in a horribly queer way, down the slope and over No Man’s Land, maneuvered by Jean, who was inside of it, and who proved that he was a keen trailer of the Boches, as the lad always called the Germans. The boy frightened Nathalie, sometimes, by the intense hatred he displayed whenever the Germans were mentioned, as his face would grow tense and a sudden fire would flame up in his eyes, while his one hand would clench rigidly and his little form trembled with the force of the passion within his breast. But the children did not always play at war in France, for sometimes they were Indians, and would wriggle over the grass snake-fashion. They were all sachems, or big chiefs, named after some red-skinned hero of some Indian tale Nathalie had told them, each one intent on scalping some white man. Sometimes Jean would teach the boys how to play some of the games played in Belgium, as _jet_, a game which seemed to be played with a stick on a stone, and which they all seemed to enjoy. Then again they would play hopscotch in Jean’s way, and which he called “Kalinker.” But always at the end of their play they would line up in the circling ledge of stones, and, as if inspired by Nathalie’s suggestion on the day of their first visit to the fort, stand very still as they again bowed their heads in a silent prayer for the boys who were fighting “over there.” Then, one morning, a telephone message came from Mr. Banker that he would be up that afternoon and take the children to the Flume. Whereupon they all became so exuberantly happy that Nathalie had rather a hard time pinning them down to their usual duties. After a delightful drive, in which Nathalie and Mr. Banker were kept busy answering the many queries propounded by the sightseers, as they gazed in awed wonder at the strange rock formations with their purple and green tints, the silvery waterfalls, and the many natural beauties of the Notch, they arrived at the Flume. Here, opposite the Flume House, they climbed a zigzagging path up a hill backed by two massive mountains, and then went through a belt of woodland to inspect the Pool. This was a mountain freak, a great basin over a hundred feet wide and forty deep, hollowed out by the Pemigewasset River’s age-old tools, sand and water, as they flowed over its rocky bed. The lustrous green of its waters rippling between lichen-covered cliffs, and canopied by overhanging trees—that looked as if they would fall from age—was so transparent that the children could see the shiny pebbles at the bottom of the Pool.