The weeks that followed were red-letter ones in the life of Jim Clanton.  They gave him his first glimpse of a family life which had for its basis not only affection, but trust and understanding.  He had never before seen a household that really enjoyed little jokes shared in common, whose members were full of kind consideration the one for the other.  The Roubideaus had more than a touch of the French temperament.  They took life gayly and whimsically, and though they poked all kinds of fun at each other there was never any sting to their wit.

Pauline was a famous little nurse.  It was not long before she was offering herself as a crutch to help young Clanton limp to the sunny porch.  Two or three days later Billie joined his fellow invalid.  From where they sat the two young men could hear the girl as she went about her work singing.  Often she came out with a plate of hot, new-baked cookies for them and a pitcher of milk.  Or she would dance out without any excuse except that of her own frank interest in the youth she shared with her patients.

One of the Roubideau jokes was that Polly was the mother of the family and her father and Jean two mischievous little boys she had to scold and pet alternately.  Temporarily she took the two cowpunchers into her circle and browbeat them shamefully with an impudent little twinkle in her eyes.  Whatever the state of Billie’s mind may have been before, there can be no doubt that now he was fathoms deep in love.  With hungry eyes he took in her laughter and raillery, her boyish high spirits, the sweet tenderness of the girl for her father.  He loved her wholly—­the charm of her comradeship, of her swift, generous impulses, of that touch of coquetry she could not entirely subdue.

Pierre had been a chasseur in the Franco-Prussian War.  His daughter was very proud of it, but one of her games was to mock him fondly by swaggering back and forth while she sang: 

“Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive.”

When she came to the chorus, nothing would do but all of them must join.  She taught the words and tune to Prince and Jimmie so that they could fall into line behind the old soldier and his son: 

“Aux armes, citoyens! formez vos bataillons! 
            Marchons!  Marchons! 
Qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons.”

It always began in pretended derision, but as she swept her little company down the porch all the gallant, imperishable soul of France spoke in her ringing voice and the flash of her brown eyes.  Surely her patriotism was no less sound because the blood of Alsace and that of Tennessee were fused in her ardent veins.

The wounds of the young men healed rapidly, and both of them foresaw that the day of their departure could no longer be postponed.  Neither of them was yet in condition to walk very far, but on horseback they were fit to travel carefully.

“We got all the time there is.  No need of pushin’ on the reins, but I reckon the old man isn’t payin’ us fifty dollars a month to hold down the Roubideau porch,” said Prince regretfully.