good hunk of bread and a piece of chocolate, the poorer ones bread alone, very often only a stale hard crust that couldn’t have been very nourishing.  They were a very poor lot at our little village, St. Quentin, and we did all we could in the way of warm stockings and garments; but the pale, pinched faces rather haunted me, and Henrietta and I thought we would try and arrange with the school mistress who was wife of one of the keepers, to give them a hot plate of soup every day during the winter months.  W., who knew his people well, rather discouraged us—­said they all had a certain sort of pride, notwithstanding their poverty, and might perhaps be offended at being treated like tramps or beggars; but we could try if we liked.

We got a big kettle at La Ferte, and the good Mere Cecile of the Asile lent us the tin bowls, also telling us we wouldn’t be able to carry out our plan.  She had tried at the Asile, but it didn’t go; the children didn’t care about the soup—­liked the bread and chocolate better.  It was really a curious experience.  I am still astonished when I think of it.  The soup was made at the head-keeper’s cottage, standing on the edge of the woods.

We went over the first day about eleven o’clock—­a cold, clear day, a biting wind blowing down the valley.  The children were all assembled, waiting impatiently for us to come.  The soup was smoking in a big pot hung high over the fire.  We, of course, tasted it, borrowing two bowls from the children and asking Madame Labbey to cut us two pieces of bread, the children all giggling and rather shy.  The soup was very good, and we were quite pleased to think that the poor little things should have something warm in their stomachs.  The first depressing remark was made by our own coachman on the way home.  His little daughter was living at the keeper’s.  I said to him, “I did not see Celine with the other children.”  “Oh, no, Madame; she wasn’t there.  We pay for the food at Labbey’s; she doesn’t need charity.”

The next day, equally cold, about half the children came (there were only twenty-seven in the school); the third, five or six, rather shamefaced; the fourth, not one; and at the end of the week the keeper’s wife begged us to stop the distribution; all the parents were hurt at the idea of their children receiving public charity from Madame Waddington.  She had thought some of the very old people of the village might like what was left; but no one came except some tramps and rough-looking men who had heard there was food to be had, and they made her very nervous prowling around the house when she was alone, her husband away all day in the woods.

W. was amused—­not at all surprised—­said he was quite sure we shouldn’t succeed, but it was just as well to make our own experience.  We took our bowls back sadly to the Asile, where the good sister shook her head, saying, “Madame verra comme c’est difficile de faire du bien dans ce paysci; on ne pense qu’a s’amuser.”  And yet we saw the miserable little crusts of hard bread, and some of the boys in linen jackets over their skin, no shirt, and looking as if they had never had a good square meal in their lives.