estion as to
who had really done the work of destruction there--the Germans, the
Versaillais, or the Communards. To the poor victims who had come forth
from their hiding-places, returning only to find their homes and hearths
ruined, it could really matter little whether the grim work was done by
the six of one or the half-a-dozen of the other.

Wandering along the streets in ruins, I was struck by one piece of high
wall left standing out against the grey sky to bear witness to the
strange caprices of the destructive element; a large red umbrella hung
in its place on that wall, and a striped petticoat bedrizzled with rain
was being blown about by the wind. The fireplace had kept its every-day
appearance, whilst the floor beneath it had gone; on the mantelpiece
stood some little household gods, bits of china, a clock, and various
nick-nacks one could not distinguish at a distance. Close to me was a
touching little group of victims. A woman with three girls, their ages
ranging from eight to twelve years, stood gazing at that wall which had
once been part of their home. They did not give vent to their feelings
in tears or loud lamentations, as so many around me did; the mother was
simply dazed, the children overawed. They had come back to Saint Cloud
from I know not where, and were carrying their little belongings tied up
in cotton handkerchiefs. I think they would scarcely have been able to
identify their home, if it had not been for the red umbrella and the
striped petticoat.

After a while I spoke to the woman and elicited with some difficulty
that her husband had been killed early in the campaign, one son was
maimed for life, and the other had not been heard of for two months.
When I gave her a few francs she put them in her pocket mechanically;
her thoughts were elsewhere. I passed on to witness more destruction and
distress. When I returned, some half-an-hour later, to where the high
wall stood, I found the mother and the three girls just where I had left
them, still hopelessly gazing at the household gods that were mocking
their misery from on high.

It was not till that day that I quite realised what we mean when we
speak of blank despair.

* * * * *

The recuperative power of the French people is truly extraordinary, and,
from the first day and hour of his deliverance, the Parisian gave
striking evidence of it. Endowed as he is with indomitable pluck,
infinite resources, and ine