And I soon saw—­no one could fail to see—­the change that day by day came over our reserved companion.  The stern line of her lips relaxed.  In amazement one day we heard her laugh.  Then her laughter began to break forth on all occasions; and we listened to her singing above in her room, and we smiled at each other.  That tightness of her brow dissolved in a carefree radiance.  At work, she mixed up her faultless card catalogues and laughed at her mistakes.  Once, during our busy hours of distribution, we caught her blithely granting the request of fat Mere Copillet for a cook stove and thereupon absently presenting that jovial dame with a pair of sabots, much too small for her portly foot, to the amusement of all the good wives gathered in the Red Cross office.  They laughed loudly in a sympathetic crowd, and Mademoiselle Gaston laughed also, and they loved her more than ever.  When they learned that she had chosen to be married in the ruined cathedral of her native town, their affection turned to adoration.  Not a peasant in the region but took this to be an honor to his city and to himself.  Gratitude and a nameless hope filled the hearts of the people of Noyon.

The day was at hand.  The poste was closed, for within there was a feast to prepare and a bride to adorn.  In the early morning the sun-browned peasant women brought flowers, masses of goldenrod and asters.  These we arranged in brass shells, empty husks of death, till the bleak spaciousness of our shattered house was gay.  The rooms, still elegant in proportion, lent themselves naturally to adornment; and I found myself wondering what former festivities they had sheltered, what other brides had passed down this stately corridor before the bombs let in the wind and the rain and the thieves; and what remote luxuries had been reflected in the great mirror of which only the carved gilt frame was left?  Today, goldenrod and asters bloomed against the mouldy walls and one little tri-colored bouquet.  Flowers of France, in truth, sprung on the battle field and offered by earth-stained fingers to her who had served.

From the kitchen came noises of snapping wood, and a sizzling which tempted me to the door.  It was a fine old kitchen, though now the tiles were mostly gone from the floor, and the cracked walls were smeared with uncouth paintings, the work of some childish soul—­some German mess sergeant, perhaps, who had been installed there, but today Jeanne reigned again, bending her philosophic face over the smoking stove, and evoking with infallible arts aromatic and genial vapors from her casseroles.  At her side, Therese, pink and cream in the abundance of her eighteen years, fanned the fire, her eyes wide open with the novel excitement of the occasion.

“La guerre est finie, Mademoiselle Miss!” cried Jeanne with spoon dripping in mid air.  “Today I have butter to cook with.  Now you shall taste a French dinner comme il faut!”