soup was made at the head-keeper's cottage,
standing on the edge of the woods.

We went over the first day about eleven o'clock--a cold, clear day, a
biting wind blowing down the valley. The children were all assembled,
waiting impatiently for us to come. The soup was smoking in a big pot
hung high over the fire. We, of course, tasted it, borrowing two bowls
from the children and asking Madame Labbey to cut us two pieces of
bread, the children all giggling and rather shy. The soup was very
good, and we were quite pleased to think that the poor little things
should have something warm in their stomachs. The first depressing
remark was made by our own coachman on the way home. His little
daughter was living at the keeper's. I said to him, "I did not see
Celine with the other children." "Oh, no, Madame; she wasn't there. We
pay for the food at Labbey's; she doesn't need charity."

The next day, equally cold, about half the children came (there were
only twenty-seven in the school); the third, five or six, rather
shamefaced; the fourth, not one; and at the end of the week the
keeper's wife begged us to stop the distribution; all the parents were
hurt at the idea of their children receiving _public_ charity from
Madame Waddington. She had thought some of the very old people of the
village might like what was left; but no one came except some tramps
and rough-looking men who had heard there was food to be had, and they
made her very nervous prowling around the house when she was alone,
her husband away all day in the woods.

W. was amused--not at all surprised--said he was quite sure we
shouldn't succeed, but it was just as well to make our own experience.
We took our bowls back sadly to the Asile, where the good sister shook
her head, saying, "Madame verra comme c'est difficile de faire du bien
dans ce paysci; on ne pense qu'a s'amuser." And yet we saw the
miserable little crusts of hard bread, and some of the boys in linen
jackets over their skin, no shirt, and looking as if they had never
had a good square meal in their lives.

I had one other curious experience, and after that I gave up trying
anything that was a novelty or that they hadn't seen all their lives.
The French peasant is really conservative; and if left to himself,
with no cheap political papers or socialist orators haranguing in the
cafes on the eternal topic of the rich and the poor, he would be quite
content to go on leading the life he and his fathers