o come back the old woman said, "Now I am
satisfied; now no one shall hear me complain; I am sure that nothing
will happen to him in this war."

We harvested our crops; we placed the green bough on the top of the new
mill down in the valley; we began to cut wood in the forest; yet still
the thunder of the bombardment of Strasburg continued.

The old meadow farmer lay at home very ill, and often said, "I shall be
buried like a soldier; they will fire over my grave."

We buried the old fellow on the morning of September 2d. He had given
orders that his St. Helena medal should be buried with him; but his son
did not see fit to let this be done. He looked upon this so-called mark
of distinction as a means of preservation, in case the French should
come after all.

While we were standing at the open grave, Joseph came riding up the
hill, his horse very much blown, and cried, "Napoleon is a prisoner!"
We all hurried to the road where Joseph, still on horseback, read the
extra aloud. It was the account of the capture of Napoleon at Sedan.

What strange coincidences occur in life! We had just buried the last
man in our village who wore on his breast the badge of the infamy of
our alliance with Napoleon; and now we had his successor and heir a
prisoner in our hands.

As if by a preconcerted signal, the young people of the village struck
up, "Die Wacht am Rhein."

Without awaiting the parson's permission--very likely he wouldn't have
given it--the church-bells were rung, and the German flag was thrown to
the breeze from the top of the church spire. We returned home as if in
a dream.

When my niece, the Alsacienne, heard the news, she shook her head, and
refused to be convinced of its truth.

She had been always accustomed to hear the lying despatches of her
countrymen.

After the Sedan campaign, we all thought that the war was ended; but
the French people, in their overweening confidence, still insisted on
retaining the first place among nations, and resented the idea of their
giving up the German provinces, of which in former days they had robbed
us.

The war went on without ceasing.

CHAPTER VII.

We cannot be astonished anew every day at the phenomena of existence:
how the sun rises, how the plants grow and bloom. We must accustom
ourselves to the homely changes that are being wrought; to life and
death among us, to love and hate, to union and discord.

We ended by becom