The shadows were beginning to lengthen across the valley as the Ark rounded a bend in the stream and the little church spire of Fontanelle came into view.  “There it is—­at last!” cried Mother Meraut.  “Thank God, something of the village still stands!” She gazed eagerly into the distance.  “And there is the Chateau,” she added joyfully, pointing to a large gray stone building half hidden by a fringe of trees.  “Oh, surely things are not going to be so bad as I had feared.  Hurry! hurry!  It seems as though my heart must take wings and fly before my body, now that we are so near!”

Father Meraut bent to the oars.  “I will stay with the boat while you and the children go to the village,” he said, when, a few moments later, he found a favorable spot to land.

Mother Meraut was out of the boat almost before it was beached, the Twins sprang out after her, and the three started up the road to the village on a run.  Groves of trees just bursting into leaf lay between them and the one street of the little town, and it was not until they had passed it that they could tell how much damage had been done.  The sight that met their eyes as they entered the village was not reassuring, but, hoping against hope, they ran on to the little house which had been Mother Meraut’s childhood home.  At the threshold they paused, and the tears which Mother Meraut had resolutely refused to shed when she had said good-by to her own home in Rheims fell freely as she gazed upon the ruins of the home of her parents.  The house was empty, the windows were gone, the door was wrenched from its hinges, and the roof was open to the sky.  The whole village was in much the same condition.  Every house was empty, the street deserted.

Neither Mother Meraut nor the Twins said a word.  With heavy hearts they turned from the gaping doorway and started toward the Chateau, which lay half a mile beyond the village.  Not a soul did they meet until they arrived at the great gate which marked the entrance to the park, and then they saw that the Chateau too had suffered.  It had been partly burned out, but as its walls were standing and one wing looked habitable, their spirits rose a little.  At the gate a child was playing.  They stopped.  “Can you tell me, ma petite,” said Mother Meraut, her voice trembling, “whether there is any one here by the name of Jamart?”

“Mais—­oui,” answered the child, surveying the strangers with curiosity.  “Voila!” She pointed a stubby finger toward the Chateau, and there, just disappearing behind a corner of the wall, was the bent figure of an old woman carrying a pail of water.

With a cry of joy, Mother Meraut sprang forward, and Pierre and Pierrette for once in their lives, run as they would, could not keep up with her.  She fairly flew over the ground, and when the Twins at last reached her side, the pail of water was spilled on the ground, and the two women were weeping in each other’s arms.  An old man now came toward them and the children flung themselves upon him.  “Grandpere!  Grandpere!” they shouted, and then such another embracing as there was!