he station, I had found that the Telephone
Directory contained at least a dozen Duponts, that the City Directory
held a small regiment of them, and considered that New Jersey had a
right to its share of citizens of that name.

The train stopped, and we got out in a place that was mostly constituted
by a bridge, small houses lining a muddy pike and a vista of many houses
partly concealed among trees. After consultation with a local butcher,
followed by the invasion of a grocer's shop, we were directed to a neat
frame cottage within a garden. I opened the gate and walked in, first,
deeming it my duty to face the dangers and protect the convoy in my
rear.

There was no need to ring a bell. The front door opened and a
white-haired woman appeared, her locks partly hidden under a white cap
that was the counterpart of many I had seen in the Latin Quarter, among
janitresses or ladies vending vegetables from barrows. Her form was
concealed in a wide, shapeless garment, of the kind adopted by French
women whom age has caused to abandon the pomps and vanities. I believe
they call it a _caraco_. The cotton skirt was unadorned and the
slippers ample for tender feet. Also, the smile on her face was
welcoming in its sweetness. Near her a fat blind dog wheezed some sort
of greeting.

"Madame Paul Dupont?" I asked.

"_Pour vous servir_," she answered politely.

So this was the Gorgon in question, the purloiner of correspondence, to
be placated if possible and defeated _vi et armis_ in case of rebellion!

Frances hastily pushed me to one side, though with all gentleness. She
spoke French very fluently. I easily understood her to say that she was
also Madame Paul Dupont, that her husband had been to the war, that she
had heard of his being killed, that--that----

She was interrupted. The white-bonneted old woman took her to her bosom,
planting a resounding kiss on her cheek, and clamored in admiration of
the baby.

"Come in the house," she said. "I am delighted to see you. I shall have
to ask Paul if he ever had any cousins or nephews who came to this
country. But no; he would have told me. I am sorry that Paul is not here
to see you. He is the pastry-cook at the Netherlands; you should taste
his puff-paste and his _Baba au Rhum_. He did not go to the war because
he is fifty-nine and has a bad leg. But I have a son over there. He has
killed many Boches. I have thirty-seven postal cards from him."

"But, Madame," I put in, "we c