nt in size and each one enveloped in white
tissue paper, carefully tied about with grey silk ribbon.

"These were written by our dear departed," she said simply.

In an instant they passed before my eyes, those "dear departed." Big,
tall William, so gay and so childish, he who used to play the ogre or
the horse, or anything one wished: a person so absolutely indispensable
to their games that all the little folk used to gather beneath his
window early in the morning, crying in chorus: "Uncle William! Uncle
William! do wake up and come down and play!"

[Illustration: FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING COMMUNIQUE IN A LITTLE
FRENCH CITY]

Jean-Francois, the engineer; Philippe, the architect; Honore, whom we
dubbed "Deshonore," because he used always to return empty-handed when
we went hunting together. Gone, gone forever!

Aunt Rose picked up one of the smaller packages.

"These were from little Jacques." And two bright tears trembled on her
lashes.

"You remember him, of course, my dear. He was an orphan, he never knew
his mother. I always supposed that is what made him so distant and
reserved. Jean, his guardian, who is very severe, used to treat him as
he did his own children--scolding him often about his indolence, his
lack of application to his studies.

"I used to have him here with me during his vacations. He loved this
old house--and I knew it. Sometimes when you would all start out for
some excursion I'd see him coming back towards the gate:

"'You're not going with them then, Jacques?'

"'No, thank you, Aunt Rose, it's so nice in your drawing-room.'

"When he was just a little baby I often wanted to take him onto my lap
and laugh and play with him. But he was so cold and distant! A funny
little mite, even with boys of his own age. Nobody seemed to
understand him exactly; certain people even thought that his was a
surly nature.

"He spent his last furlough here, and I found quite a change in him.
He was more robust and tanned. A splendid looking fellow, and I was so
proud of him.

"'Aunt Rose,' he asked even before we embraced, 'is there any one else
stopping with you?'

"'Why no, child, and I'm afraid you'll find the house very empty. If
only I'd known you were coming I most certainly should have invited
your cousins.'

"'Oh, I'm so glad you didn't! I much prefer being alone with you.'

"He came and went in the house, but never could be persuaded to go
outside the yard. I should have