ago, but
she still continues to send him parcels."

To another old lady he pointed out that she had written two numbers on
the parcel. "You don't want two numbers, mother. Which is your boy's
number?--tell me, and I will strike out the other."

"Leave them both," she answered. "Who knows whether my dear lad will be
there to receive the parcel? If he is not, I want it to go to some other
mother's son."

Affection means much to these men who are suffering, and they respond at
once to any sympathy shown to them. One man informed us with pride that
when he left his native village he was "decked like an altar of the
Blessed Virgin on the first of May." In other words, covered with
flowers.

There are but few lonely soldiers now, since those who have no families
to write to them receive letters and parcels from the godmothers who
have adopted them. The men anxiously await the news of their adopted
relatives, and spend hours writing replies. They love to receive
letters, but needless to say a parcel is even more welcome.

I remember seeing one man writing page after page. I suggested to him
that he must have a particularly charming godmother. "Mademoiselle," he
replied, "I have no time for a godmother since I myself am a godfather."
He then explained that far away in his village there was a young
assistant in his shop, "And God knows the boy loves France, but both his
lungs are touched, so they won't take him, but I write and tell him that
the good God has given me strength for two, that I fight for him and
for myself, and that we are both doing well for France." I went back in
imagination to the village, I could see the glint in the boy's eyes,
realised how the blood pulsed quicker through his veins at the sight of,
not the personal pronoun "I" in the singular, but the plural "We are
doing well for France": for one glorious moment he was part of the hosts
of France and in spirit serving his Motherland. It is that spirit of the
French nation that their enemies will never understand.

On one occasion a young German officer, covered with mud from head to
foot, was brought before one of the French Generals. He had been taken
fighting cleanly, and the General was anxious to show him kindness. He
asked him if he would not prefer to cleanse himself before examination.
The young German drew himself up and replied: "Look at me, General; I am
covered from head to foot with mud, and that mud is the soil of France.
You will never