s had been sent out to the farm, where they were
needed, and Joseph, fallen from the glory of his box, attired in a
striped alpaca vest, and wearing a straw hat, half civilian, half
servant, seemed a decidedly puffy old man, much aged since our last
visit.

"Monsieur and Madame will be obliged to take the omnibus. Will
Monsieur kindly give me the baggage check?"

Then as I fumbled in my purse--

"Monsieur and Madame will find many changes, I fear."

But in spite of his prophecy to us there seemed little difference. The
rickety old omnibus rattled and bumped noisily over the pointed cobble
pavements, the tiny city merely seemed asleep behind its drawn blinds
and its closed shutters. At the corner of the square in front of the
chateau the old vegetable vendor still sold her products seated beneath
her patched red cotton parasol; the Great Dane watchdog lay in exactly
the same place on the tinker's doorstep. Around the high church tower
the crows circled and cawed as usual, while the bell of its clock
which, as we passed, slowly struck three, was echoed by the distant
hills with the same familiar sound.

The omnibus deposited us at the entrance to the big roomy edifice which
Aunt Rose called "home."

The broad facade, evenly pierced by its eighteen long French windows,
had a genial, inviting appearance, while the soft rose colour of the
bricks, the white stone trimming, the iron balconies, mingled here and
there with bas-reliefs and sculptures, were in perfect harmony with the
tall slanting slate roof and majestic chimneys, the whole forming one
of those delightful ensembles constructed by local architects during
the 17th century for the pleasure and comfort of a large French
bourgeois family.

Aunt Rose herself, leaning upon an ivory-headed cane, but bright eyed
and alert as ever, awaited us at the top of the steps. From her we
soon learned that we had missed our friends the M.'s by but a day, and
that little Andre, son of our cousins in Flers, had announced his visit
for the following Monday.

At this point Friquet, her old Pomeranian favourite, crept down from
his cushion and approached us.

"He doesn't bark any more, so you know he must be getting old," smiled
Aunt Rose, caressing her pet.

"My poor Victoire is getting on, too, I fear. Her nephew is stone
blind since the battle of the Marne. Joseph has lost two of his
grandsons; of course, he didn't tell you--he doesn't want any one to
speak of it-