Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood the fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air route. Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it isn't that. It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once you are accepted as a bosom friend of the family--that is the charm of Suzanne's. After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been there, and where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to [v]"_Ma belle mere_," a white-haired old lady sitting in a big, straight-backed chair. Then, after more courtesies had been extended to me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and left me alone while she went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good. A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to see one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and slender, and as she came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little work bag from one arm. All in black she was, with a lace shawl over her bare head. Like every one in that most charming and hospitable house, there was no formality or show about her. She came, smiling, and sat on the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could not help noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a story too common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an expression of resigned peace. Then she told me about Suzanne. Long before, ages and ages ago it seemed, but really only four years, a huge, ungainly bird fell crashing to earth and from the wreck a man was taken, unconscious. He was carried to "Suzanne's," and she nursed him and cared for him until he was well again. "Suzanne was very happy then," madame told me. And no wonder, for the daring aviator and Suzanne were in love. She nursed him back to health, but when he went away he left his heart forever with her. They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his station to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation--well, even at that, it hasn't changed so much. One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing heart she read that her _fiance_ had been killed. [v]"_Mort pour la patrie_," it said, and Suzanne was never the same afterward. For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to realize that what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other girls, too, and, gradually, she took up the attitude that you find throughout this glorious country. Only her eyes now tell the sad story.