out and buy something and send it off without knowing
who had handled it." This was the cook's idea of patriotism, which I
shared most heartily, having at one time had nothing but "bully beef"
and dried beans as constant diet for nearly a fortnight.

The coachman and inside man sealed the crocks and tins, prepared and
forwarded the packages.

"Oh, there's one for everybody! Even the boys of the city who haven't
got a family to look after them. They must be mighty glad Madame's
alive. We put in one or two post cards, views of the town. That
cheers them up and makes them feel they're not forgotten here in R----."

One afternoon on descending into the kitchen we beheld two sturdy
looking fellows seated at table and eating with ravenous appetite. One
was an artilleryman who had but a single arm, the other a _chasseur_,
whose much bandaged leg was reposing upon a stool.

"They are wounded men on convalescent leave," explained Armandine.
"The poor fellows need a little humouring so that they'll build up the
quicker, and an extra meal surely can't hurt!"

This was certainly the opinion of the two invalids who had just
disposed of a most generous bacon omelet, and were about to dig into a
jar of _pate_.

Armandine and Nicholas watched them eat with evident admiration, fairly
drinking up their words when between mouthsful they would stop for
breath and deign to speak. Their rustic eloquence was like magic balm
poured onto a constantly burning, ulcerated sore.

"Your son? Why, of course, he'll turn up!" the artilleryman assured
them.

"But he hasn't written a line!"

"That's nothing. Now just suppose that correspondence is forbidden in
his sector for the time being."

"I know, but it's three months since we heard from him. We've written
everywhere, to all the authorities, and never get any returns--except
now and then a card saying that they're giving the matter their
attention. That's an awfully bad sign, isn't it?"

"Not at all, not at all," chimed in the _chasseur_. "Why, some of the
missing have been found in other regiments, or even in the depots, and
nobody knows how they got there.

"Three months? Why, that's not long. After the battle of the Marne my
poor old mother had them say Heaven knows how many masses for the
repose of my soul; for four months and three days she never heard a
thing of me, and I'd written her regularly every week.

"Yes, and what are you going to do if the letter carrie