"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "_Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien, Madame_, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car. On our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his wife and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a _camion_ at the front, and that their home was gone. At the _Grand Bazaar_ Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the huge crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur, who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the baggage room for us. "_Hey, mon vieux!_" he addressed the baggage man, "step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of dolls--dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal interest. "Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out the twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand. "_Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir_," he murmured. I protested, but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for the little girls--out there." Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and watching us. He waved his hat. "_Bon voyage!_" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying upon the intimidated and helpless public. VAUCHELLES. Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified _Calvaire_, though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.