Doctors in white aprons were already in attendance upon the wounded, and nurses with red crosses on the sleeves of their white uniforms flitted silently back and forth on errands of mercy.  The two children, clinging to each other and gazing fearfully about them, followed the Verger down the aisle.  As they passed a heap of straw upon which a wounded German lay, something bright rolled from it to them and dropped at Pierrette’s feet.  Pierre sprang to pick it up.  It was a German helmet.  Across the front of it were letters.  Pierre spelled them—­“Gott mit uns.”  “What does that mean?” he asked the Verger.

“God with us,” snorted Father Varennes.  “I suppose the poor wretches actually believe He is.”

The Abbe’ was waiting for them in the aisle, and he took from them the flags and the helmet.  He had heard the Verger’s reply, and guessed what the question must have been.  “My boy,” he said, laying his hand gently upon Pierre’s head for an instant, “God is not far from any of his children.  It is they who, through sin, separate themselves from Him!  But never mind theology now.  Your Mother is waiting for you.  I will take you to her.”

The Twins thought it strange that the Abbe’ should himself guide them to their Mother.  They followed his broad back and swinging black soutane to the farthest corner of the hospital space.  There, beside a mound of straw upon which was stretched a wounded soldier in French uniform, knelt their Mother, and the Twins, looking down, met the eyes of their own Father gazing up at them.

“Gently! my dears, gently!” cautioned their Mother, as the children fell upon their knees beside her in an agony of tears.  “Don’t cry! he is wounded, to be sure, but he will get well, though he can never again fight for France.  We shall see him every day, and by and by he will be at home again with us.”

Too stunned for speech, the Twins only kissed the blood-stained hands, and then their Mother led them away.  Under the western arches she kissed them good-by.  “Go now to Madame Coudert,” she said, “and tell her your Father is here, and that I shall stay in the Cathedral.  Ask her to take care of you for the night.  In the morning, if it is quiet, come again to me.”

Dazed, happy, grieved, the children obeyed.  They found Madame Coudert beaming above her empty counter.  “Bless you,” she cried, when they gave her their Mother’s message, “of course you can stay!  There are no pink cakes for Pierre, but who cares for cakes now that the French are once more in Rheims!  And to think you have your Father back again!  Surely this is a happy day for you, even though he came back with a wound!”

V. AT MADAME COUDERT’S