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Project Gutenberg's My Home In The Field of Honor, by Frances Wilson Huard This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: My Home In The Field of Honor Author: Frances Wilson Huard Release Date: April 28, 2004 [EBook #12185] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOR *** Produced by Sean Pobuda MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR BY FRANCES WILSON HUARD I The third week in July found a very merry gathering at the Chateau de Villiers. (Villiers is our summer home situated near Marne River, sixty miles or an hour by train to Paris.) Nothing, I think, could have been farther from thoughts than the idea of war. Our May Wilson Preston, the artist; Mrs. Chase, the editor of a well-known woman's magazine; Hugues Delorme, the French artist; and numerous other guests, discussed the theatre and the "Caillaux case" from every conceivable point of view, and their conversations were only interrupted by serious attempts to prove their national superiority at bridge, and long delightful walks in the park. As I look back now over those cheerful times, I can distinctly remember one bright sunny morning, when after a half-hour's climbing we reached the highest spot on our property. Very warm and a trifle out of breath we sought shelter beneath a big purple beech, and I can still hear H. explaining to Mrs. Chase: "Below you on the right runs the Marne, and over there, beyond those hills, do you see that long straight line of trees?" "Yes." "Well, that's the road that lead's from Paris to Metz!" At that moment I'm confident he hadn't the slightest _arriere pensee_. On Monday, the 27th, Mrs. Preston, having decided to take her leave, I determined to accompany her to Paris. Several members of the house party joined us, leaving H. and a half-dozen friends at Villiers. We took an early morning train, and wrapped in our newspapers we were rolling peacefully towards the capital when someone called out, "For Heaven's sake, look at those funny soldiers!" Glancing through the window, I caught sight of numerous gray-haired, bushy-bearded men stationed at even distances along the line, while here and ther
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