The shop was not far from the little home of the Merauts, and they often bought things of stout Madame Coudert, whose round face with its round spectacles rose above the counter like a full moon from behind a cloud.  “Ah, mon amie,” said Mother Meraut as she entered the shop, “it is good to see you sitting in your place and not running away like a hare before the hounds!”

Madame Coudert shrugged her shoulders.  “But of what use is it to run when one has no place to run to?” she demanded.  “As for me, I stay by the shop and die at least respectably among my own cakes and pies.  To run through the country and die at last in a ditch—­ it would not suit me at all!”

“Bravo,” cried Mother Meraut triumphantly.  “Just my own idea!  My children and I will remain in our home and take what comes, rather than leap from the frying-pan into the fire as so many are doing.  If every one runs away, there will be no Rheims at all.”  Then to Pierre and Pierrette she said “Choose, each of you.  What shall we buy for our supper?”

Pierre pointed a grimy finger at a small cake with pink frosting.  “That,” he said briefly.

His mother smiled.  “Ah, Pierre, that sweet-tooth of yours!” she cried.  “Like Marie Antoinette you think if one lacks bread one may eat cakes!  And now it is Pierrette’s turn; only be quick, ma mie, for it is already late.”

“Eggs,” said Pierrette promptly, “for one of your savory omelets, mamma, and a bit of cheese.”

The purchases were quickly made, and, having said good-night to Madame Coudert, they hurried on to the little house in the Rue Charly where they lived.  When they reached home, it was already quite dark.  Mother Meraut hastened up the steps and unlocked the door, and in less time than it takes to tell it her bonnet was off, the fire was burning, and the omelet was cooking on the stove.

Pierrette set the table.  “I’m going to place father’s chair too,” she said to her mother.  “He is no doubt thinking of us as we are of him, and it will make him stem nearer.”

Mother Meraut nodded her head without speaking, and wiped her eyes on her apron as she slid the omelet on to a hot plate.  Then she seated herself opposite the empty chair and with a steady voice prayed for a blessing upon the food and upon the Armies of France.

When they had finished supper, cleared it away, and put the kitchen in order, Mother Meraut pointed to the clock.  “Voila!” she cried, “hours past your bedtime, and here you are still flapping about like two young owls!  To bed with you as fast as you can go.”

“But, Mother,” began Pierre.

“Not a single ‘but,’” answered his Mother, wagging her finger at him.  “Va!”

The children knew protest was useless, and in a few minutes they were snugly tucked away.  Long after they were both sound asleep, their Mother sat with her head bowed upon the table, listening, listening to the distant sound of marching feet.  At last, worn out with grief and anxiety, shat too undressed, said her rosary, and, after a long look at her sleeping children, blew out the candle and crept into bed beside Pierrette.