“What town is that?” he asked, pointing to the hill.

I explained that the town on the horizon was Penchard—­not really a town, only a village; and lower down, between Penchard and Meaux, were Neufmortier and Chauconin.

All this time he was studying his map.

“Thank you.  I have it,” he said.  “It is a lovely country, and this is a wonderful view of it, the best I have had.”

For a few minutes he stood studying it in silence—­alternatively looking at his map and then through his glass.  Then he dropped his map, put his glasses into the case, and turned to me—­and smiled.  He had a winning smile, sad and yet consoling, which lighted up a bronzed face, stern and weary.  It was the sort of smile to which everything was permitted.

“Married?” he said.

You can imagine what he was like when I tell you that I answered right up, and only thought it was funny hours after—­or at least I shook my head cheerfully.

“You don’t live here alone?” he asked.

“But I do,” I replied.

He looked at me bravely a moment, then off at the plain.

“Lived here long?” he questioned.

I told him that I had lived in this house only three months, but that I had lived in France for sixteen years.

Without a word he turned back toward the house, and for half a minute, for the first time in my life, I had a sensation that it looked strange for me to be an exile in a country that was not mine, and with no ties.  For a penny I would have told him the history of my life.  Luckily he did not give me time.  He just strode down to the gate, and by the time he had his foot in the stirrup I had recovered.

“Is there anything I can do for you, captain?” I asked.

He mounted his horse, looked down at me.  Then he gave me another of his rare smiles.

“No,” he said, “at this moment there is nothing that you can do for me, thank you; but if you could give my boys a cup of tea, I imagine that you would just about save their lives.”  And nodding to me, he said to the picket, “This lady is kind enough to offer you a cup of tea,” and he rode off, taking the road down the hill to Voisins.

I ran into the house, put on the kettle, ran up the road to call Amelie, and back to the arbor to set the table as well as I could.  The whole atmosphere was changed.  I was going to be useful.

I had no idea how many men I was going to feed.  I had only seen three.  To this day I don’t know how many I did feed.  They came and came and came.  It reminded me of hens running toward a place where another hen has found something good.  It did not take me many minutes to discover that these men needed something more substantial than tea.  Luckily I had brought back from Paris an emergency stock of things like biscuit, dry cakes, jam, etc., for even before our shops were closed there was mighty little in them.  For an hour and a half I brewed pot after pot of tea, opened jar after jar of jam and jelly, and tin after tin of biscuit and cakes, and although it was hardly hearty fodder for men, they put it down with a relish.  I have seen hungry men, but never anything as hungry as these boys.