Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and watching us.  He waved his hat.

“Bon voyage!” he called above the crowd.  Then, turning, he went back into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying upon the intimidated and helpless public.

VAUCHELLES.

Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the point of meeting stands a crucifix.  This large and dignified Calvaire, though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these marks of desecration.  It forms the center of the tiny village, whose houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly along the three roads.  Not even the war which swept over in all its ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm.  Many houses have collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism.  Vauchelles has met the challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.

Is the town asleep?  The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses and their broken walls and closed doors.  No one is in sight.  Yet we have come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants.  Ah! they are all away working in the fields.  Old Mademoiselle Masson, peering through the one pane of glass that is left in her window, sees us, and hobbles to the door to give us the information.  She beams upon us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when she talks her false teeth move slightly up and down.  She will run and call her sister who is up on the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet as she goes.  The news will spread.  The news always spreads.  Already the people are gathering, for la Croix Rouge is its own introduction; and these peasants, too proud—­most of them—­to go and ask, will accept what is freely and gladly given at their doors.

The first person I call upon is Madame Cat.  Shall I soon forget that determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead?  Or the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants?  The ashes are swept in the fireplace.  Two burnished shells tattooed in a careful pattern and filled with flowers brighten the mantel.  And the bed!  Even though made of fragments found in the debris, with naught but a hay paillasse and a few old quilts dragged through the long flight and return, it is nevertheless smooth and noble, adorned only with the reverence and importance with which the French surround The Bed.  The daughter comes in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine profile like her mother’s.  They