Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we have come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants. Ah! they are all away working in the fields. Old Mademoiselle Masson, peering through the one pane of glass that is left in her window, sees us, and hobbles to the door to give us the information. She beams upon us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when she talks her false teeth move slightly up and down. She will run and call her sister who is up on the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet as she goes. The news will spread. The news always spreads. Already the people are gathering, for _la Croix Rouge_ is its own introduction; and these peasants, too proud--most of them--to go and ask, will accept what is freely and gladly given at their doors. The first person I call upon is Madame Cat. Shall I soon forget that determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead? Or the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants? The ashes are swept in the fireplace. Two burnished shells tattooed in a careful pattern and filled with flowers brighten the mantel. And the bed! Even though made of fragments found in the debris, with naught but a hay _paillasse_ and a few old quilts dragged through the long flight and return, it is nevertheless smooth and noble, adorned only with the reverence and importance with which the French surround The Bed. The daughter comes in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine profile like her mother's. They accept simply, and with appreciation, the useful things the Red Cross offers. In this case I am authorized to make an unusual present. For we have a few rolls of wall paper which we have been holding for someone who takes a special pride in her interior. It would cover the cracked and damp walls of Madame Cat and would add much cheer to her little room, besides keeping out the wind. Their faces are radiant at the suggestion. The daughter will come to the _poste_ tomorrow for it. Can they hang it themselves? "_Ah, c'est facile, Mademoiselle!_" and the mother gives me her recipé for a wonderful glue that will hold for years. They accompany me to the street. "You will come again soon, Mademoiselle, and see it for yourself?" I promise eagerly. Across the street lives Monsieur Martin. He comes from his house to greet me and holds open the gate, a tall farmer in corduroys with gentle, genial face. His wife had died during the cruel flight from the invader, and he and his three sons have come back to the remains of their old home. He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate. Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a _cocotte_.