accept simply, and with appreciation, the useful things the Red Cross offers.  In this case I am authorized to make an unusual present.  For we have a few rolls of wall paper which we have been holding for someone who takes a special pride in her interior.  It would cover the cracked and damp walls of Madame Cat and would add much cheer to her little room, besides keeping out the wind.  Their faces are radiant at the suggestion.  The daughter will come to the poste tomorrow for it.  Can they hang it themselves? “Ah, c’est facile, Mademoiselle!” and the mother gives me her recipe for a wonderful glue that will hold for years.  They accompany me to the street.

“You will come again soon, Mademoiselle, and see it for yourself?”

I promise eagerly.

Across the street lives Monsieur Martin.  He comes from his house to greet me and holds open the gate, a tall farmer in corduroys with gentle, genial face.  His wife had died during the cruel flight from the invader, and he and his three sons have come back to the remains of their old home.  He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate.  Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a cocotte.

“It needs a woman’s touch,” he says smiling.  “We are four men and we do what we can, but—­” he finishes with a gesture of the helpless male entangled in that most clinging, exasperating web of all—­cooking and dish-washing! “Ca n’en finit plus, Mademoiselle,” he exclaims in humorous misery.  “One has no sooner finished, when one must begin again.  Bah!  It is woman’s work,” with a lordly touch of imperiousness.  It is the ancient voice of Man.

The next house is dark.  No one answers my knock, and I lift the latch and go in.  The windows, being broken, are all boarded up to keep out the dreaded drafts.  It is a moment before I can see, though a quavering voice that is neither man’s nor woman’s bids me enter.  Gradually my eyes make out two wise old faces of ivory in the obscurity by the hearth.  They are old, old—­nobody knows how old they are.

“Entrez, Madame,” and the old woman rises with difficulty, leaning on her cane, and draws forward a chair.

“Bonjour, Madame,” in far-away tones from the aged husband, too feeble to move alone.  I linger for some time with these two dear souls—­for they are scarcely more than souls.  We talk of bygone, happy days, of the war, and of their present needs—­so few!  Then I tell them I am American.

“American?” says the old man, peering into my face, “that means—­friend.”

“Yes,” I reply, “that means—­friend.”