Hilda had chosen for the ceremony a village church on the Dixmude road. They put all the little necessary bundles of baby life into Hilda's ambulance--a packet of little shawls, and intimate clothing, a basket of things to eat, a great christening cake, frosted by Dunkirk's leading confectioner, a can of chocolate and of cream, candy baskets of sweets. It was Sunday--a cloudless, innocent day. They dodged through Furnes, the ruined, and came at length to the village of their quest. They entered the convent, and found a neat, clean room of eight beds. Two babies had arrived. Six mothers were expectant. In charge of the room was a red-cheeked, black-eyed nurse, a Flemish girl, motherly with the babies. Hilda dressed "Pervyse" in a long, white, immaculate dress, and a gossamer shawl, and pinned upon him a gold pin. She set the table in the convent--the cake in the center of the table, with one candle, and snowy blossoms from a plum tree. Then the party started for the church: fifteen-year-old Rene, the Belgian boy scout who was to serve as godfather, giggling; the apple-cheeked Flemish girl carrying "Pervyse"; Hilda and Hinchcliffe closely following. They walked through the village street past laughing soldiers who called out, "_Les Anglais!_" They entered the church through the left door. A puff of damp air blew into their faces. In the chancel stood a stack of soldiers' bicycles. They kneeled and waited for the Cure. In the nave, old peasant women were nodding and dipping, and telling their beads. The nurse handed the baby to Hilda. Rene giggled. Three small children wandered near and stared. On the right side of the church was heaped a bundle of straw, and three rosy soldiers emerged who had been sleeping there. They winked at the pretty Flemish nurse. The church for them was a resting-place, between trench service. The old Cure entered with his young assistant. The youth was dudish, with a business suit, and a very high, straight collar that struck his chin. The Cure was in long, black robes, with skirts--a yellow man, gray-haired, his mouth a thin, straight slit, almost toothless. His eyebrows turned up, as if the face were being pulled. His heavy ears lay back against his head, large wads of cotton-wool in them. He talked with the nurse, inquiring for the baby's name. There were a half-dozen names for the mite--family names of father and mother, so that there might be a survival of lines once so numerous. Rene's name, too, was affixed. The Cure wrote the names down on a slip of paper, and inserted it in his prayer-book. The service proceeded in Latin and Flemish.