into Paris.

It had finally been decided as best that, if all went well, we should
leave for Paris some time the next day. There were steamer tickets to
attend to. There were certain valuables to be taken up to the Bank.
The Divorcee had a trunk or two that she thought she ought to send in
order that we might start with as little luggage as possible, so both
chauffeurs were sent up to town with baggage, and orders to wait
there. The rest of us had been busy doing a little in the way of
dismantling the house. The unexpected end of our summer had come. It
was sad, but I imagine none of us were sorry, under the circumstances,
to move on.

It was nearly dinner time when the cars came back, almost together,
and we were surprised to see the Doctor going out to the servants'
quarters instead of joining us as he usually did. In fact, we did not
see him until we went into the dining room for dinner.

As he came to the head of the table, he said: "My good people, we will
serve ourselves as best we can with the cook's aid. We have no
waitress to-night. But it is our last dinner. A camp under marching
orders cannot fuss over trifles."

"Where is Angele?" asked the Divorcee. "Is she ill?" And she turned to
the door.

"Come back!" said the Doctor, sharply. "You can't help her now. Better
leave her alone!"

As if by instinct, we all knew what had happened.

"Who brought the news?" some one asked.

"They gave it to me at the _Mairie_ as I passed," replied the Doctor,
"and the _garde champetre_ told me what the envelope contained. He
fell at Charleroi."

"Poor Angele," exclaimed the Trained Nurse. "Are you sure I could not
help her?"

"Sure," said the Doctor. "She took it as a Frenchwoman should. She
snatched the baby from its cradle, and held it a moment close to her
face. Then she lifted it above her head in both hands, and said,
almost without a choke in her throat, _'Vive la France, quand
meme!_'--and dropped. I put them on the bed together, she and the boy.
She was crying like a good one when I left her. She's all right."

"Poor child--and that tiny baby!" exclaimed the Divorcee, wiping her
eyes.

"Fudge," said the Doctor. "She is the widow of a hero, and the mother
of the hero's son. Considering what life is, that is to be one of the
elect of Fate. She'll go through life with a halo round her head, and,
like most of the French women I have seen, she'll wear it like a
crown. It becomes us, in the same spirit, to pa