It was then we bumped straight into Wickham Brand, who was between a small boy and girl, holding his hands, while a tall girl of sixteen or so, with a yellow pig-tail slung over her shoulder, walked alongside, talking vivaciously of family experiences under German rule. Pierre Nesle was on the other side of her. “In spite of all the fear we had--oh, how frightened we were sometimes!--we used to laugh very much. _Maman_ made a joke of everything--it was the only way. _Maman_ was wonderfully brave, except when she thought that Father might have been killed.” “Where was your father?” asked Brand. “On the French side of the lines?” “Yes, of course. He was an officer in the artillery. We said good-bye to him on August 2nd of the first year, when he went off to the depôt at Belfort. We all cried except _maman_--father was crying too--but _maman_ did not wink away even the tiniest tear until father had gone. Then she broke down so that we all howled at the sight of her. Even these babies joined in. They were only babies then.” “Any news of him?” asked Brand. “Not a word. How could there be? Perhaps in a few days he will walk into Lille. So _maman_ says.” “That would be splendid!” said Brand. “What is his name?” “Chéri. M. le Commandant Anatole Chéri, 59th Brigade artillerie lourde.” The girl spoke her father’s name proudly. I saw a startled look come into the eyes of Pierre Nesle as he heard the name. In English he said to Brand: “I knew him at Verdun. He was killed.” Wickham Brand drew a sharp breath, and his voice was husky when he spoke, in English too. “What cruelty it all is!” The girl with the pig-tail--a tall young creature with a delicate face and big brown eyes--stared at Pierre Nesle and then at Wickham Brand. She asked an abrupt question of Pierre. “Is my father dead?” Pierre Nesle stammered something. He was not sure. He had heard that the Commandant Chéri was wounded at Verdun. The girl understood perfectly. “He is dead, then? _Maman_ will be very sorry.” She did not cry. There was not even a quiver of her lips. She shook hands with Brand and said: “I must go and tell _maman_. Will you come and see us one day?” “With pleasure,” said Brand. “Promise?” The girl laughed as she raised her finger. “I promise,” said Brand solemnly. The girl “collected” the small boy and girl, holding their heads close to her waist. “Is father dead?” said the small boy. “Perhaps. I believe so,” said the elder sister. “Then we shan’t get the toys from Paris?” said the small girl. “I am afraid not, _coquine_.” “What a pity!” said the boy. Pierre Nesle took a step forward and saluted. “I will go with you, if you permit it, mademoiselle. It is perhaps in a little way my duty, as I met your father in the war.” “Thanks a thousand times,” said the girl. “_Maman_ will be glad to know all you can tell her.” She waved to Brand a merry _au revoir_.