Even Madame Fusil, the baker, who was in most urgent need of assistance, resolved to be equal to her task alone. It is her little daughter who delivers the bread to all the numerous patrons, quite a complicated undertaking for so young a child, who must drive her poor old nag and his load down many a bumpy side path. One can hear her little voice all over the country side. "Here Jupiter--get up, I say." I met her one morning in the Chemin du Moulin, whip in hand, pulling old Jupiter by the bridle. But Jupiter had decided to take a rest. Nothing could make him budge, nothing, neither cries nor complaints, sweetmeats nor menaces. Jupiter was as determined as he was obstinate. The unfortunate child was red with indignation, almost on the verge of tears. "_Oui, oui,_" she fairly sobbed, "he just ought to be sent to the front. That would teach him a lesson. He does it on purpose, I do believe. He knows well enough I'll be late to school! It's already half past seven. I've got three more deliveries to make, and must take him home and unharness him!" "What time did you start out, child?" "Why, four o'clock as usual, Madame. But I'm sure to be late this morning." I promised that as I was passing by the school I would step in and tell Madame Dumont, the head mistress, the reason of her tardiness. She felt much better after that, and presently our combined efforts got Jupiter to move. True to my word I sought out Madame Dumont, and found the good woman already extremely busy at this early hour. A peasant mother and her three children all arrayed in their Sunday best, were grouped together at one end of the garden, smiling blandly into the lens of a camera which the school mistress set up and prepared to operate. "There--that's it--smile! Click! It's all over. Now then, Magloire, climb up on a chair. Hold yourself quite straight, dear, so your papa will see how much you've grown." Magloire was photographed with her nose in the air, her mouth wide open, her other features registering the most complete lunacy. Joseph, her brother, at whom they fairly shrieked in order to make him smile, produced the most singular contortion of the mouth that I have ever seen, which denoted an extreme gift for mimicry, rare in so young a child. Little Marie was taken on her mother's lap, and I thought of the ecstasy of the brave fellow to whom one day the postman would bring the envelope containing the glorious proofs. With what pride he will show them to his companions, how he will gloat over his Magloire and his Joseph, his petite Marie and his _bonne femme_. Then, drawing away from the others, he will study them again, each one in turn. Nights when on duty, those cold nights of vigil, way out there in Saloniki, when fatigue and homesickness will assail him, he will slip his hand down into his pocket, and his rough fingers will touch the grease stained envelope that contains the cherished faces of his dear ones.