I RETURNED to the house with a heavy heart, and found both Papa and Grandpère about to set out in search of me. They had been very anxious, and I felt myself to blame. No one scolded except Eugénie; but her love prevented any continuation of her ill-temper, and, when she had spoken her mind, the matter was dropped.

We all mourned the wreck of the cathedral, and Papa saw in it a beginning of the ruin of Rheims itself.

"The Boches will destroy the city," he said positively; "they are angered because we drove them back from Paris. Therefore you must all leave in the morning and not wait for Monday as we planned." This arrangement was quickly made, for Grandpère was impatient to be off.

I said good-by to Papa that night, because he could not leave his duties on the morrow. I still held to my faith that the Bon Dieu would guard him in all the battles, and, although my heart was sore at the parting, I would not let myself consider the possibilities of anything happening to him. We were to let him know as soon as we were settled in Paris. He kissed us all good-by, laughed when we prayed him not to run into unnecessary danger, and then he went out into the night to find his way back to his grim duties.

With the morning came a renewal of the bombardment, but Grandpère, impatient to be away, roused us early; and before the sun was an hour high, the last good-bys were said and we were hurrying toward the railroad station.

Early as it was, there were many already on the streets, heading in the same direction; but we arrived in time to take our stand near the top of the waiting line, and Grandpère's old and faded uniform, with the Cross of the Legion pinned upon the tunic, won us favor from the railway guards. One of these whispered to him what we had best do when the hour came, and, by following his advice, we managed to board the only train that left Rheims that day.

But first we waited a long, long time, and the crowd grew steadily larger as the morning passed, until I thought the whole people of the city were clamoring to be

away.

When, finally, the doors were thrown open, we rushed in with the others and found seats in a compartment that in a twinkling was filled to overflowing. After that, hundreds passed up and down the platform, looking with frightened faces for a space into which they might squeeze themselves.

As I said, we were lucky enough to secure seats; but we had them for a very few minutes. A tired mother and a small baby were soon in Grandpère's place; little Jacques gave his to an old, old woman; and a tottering blind man took mine in exchange for his blessing.

But even the narrow aisle in which we stood, crowded almost to suffocation though we were, became a reproach to us, while the door of the compartment still stood open, as we looked out upon the terror-stricken throng that passed and repassed in an endless procession, holding up white faces while they begged us, by all we held dear, to make room for them.

"Laissez-moi entrer!" ["Let me come

in!"]

A thousand times the words were spoken, by trembling women, by crippled men, by lisping children.

"C'est impossible! C'est absolument impossible!"

That was the only answer, given in pity, from one end of the train to the other.

My own heart ached, and I could see Grandpère grow more and more uneasy.

At length a woman, with two little ones clinging to her skirts and a tiny baby in her arms, stopped before the carriage door and regarded us with eyes of despair.

"J'ai trois enfants, messieurs. Ayez un peu de pitié!" ["I have three children, sirs. Have a little pity!"]

She made her plea hopelessly, in a low, tired voice, expecting but a repetition of the answer she had heard so often.

And it came, from an old woman near the entrance.

"Regardez! On ne peut pas faire plus de place, Madame." ["Look! It is not possible to make room, Madame."]

"Mais c'est le dernier train, et j'ai peur pour les petits!" ["But this is the last train, and I fear for the little ones""]

"C'est trop! C'est trop!" ["It is too much! It is too much!"] I heard Grandpère murmur under his breath; and the mother, catching the note of compassion in his voice, addressed him directly.

"Monsieur le Colonel," she said, "the father of my children has been killed. I have no money. I have nothing! We would go to Paris to the house of my father and be saved from starvation. Can no one make room for the children of a man who died for France?"

Grandpère, I knew, had held back this long only on account of little Jacques and me. At this last appeal all three of us pushed our way out of the compartment, not waiting to exchange even a glance. We bundled the woman and her children into our places, amid her heartfelt blessings, and then stepped back out of the way of the still clamoring crowd.

In spite of our early start we were no better off than thousands who had waited till the last moment. The humor of the situation overcame all other feelings. I looked up at Grandpère and laughed out-' right.

His face, made stern by the demands upon his pity, relaxed in a moment and he, too, laughed heartily.

"Ah, Jeannette, it seems that we walk to Paris! What say you, Jacques?"

"It would be fine fun, Monsieur," the boy answered bravely. And thus it came about that we three took the road to the capital. Many times we were tired, but never dull; for there were a host of sights, some so sad, a few gay, and all within the shadow of the great war.

On that journey, any doubt I might have had as to the outcome of the conflict was set at rest. I found in the men and women of my country the fortitude to endure, the brave confidence in victory, the determination to fight on for la patrie and everlasting peace. The spirit of Jeanne d'Arc was alive in the soul of France.

CHAPTER XVI

ON THE ROAD TO PARIS

WE went back to the house for a few minutes to tell Eugénie of the change in our plans, so that she might let Papa know; then we set out hopefully and with a good

courage.

My diary is very full of the happenings of that journey, from day to day, and I might fill a large book with recounting them. On the start we were crowded by hundreds of others, who were driven out of Rheims by the German shells, and I had a taste of the experience that little Jacques had been through. But this time we took good care not to lose each other. After a time the throng grew thinner, for many sought the roads leading to the larger towns, like Épernay, hoping there to find trains upon which they could ride. Grandpère was as anxious as any to reach Paris, but he decided we should make better speed afoot upon the direct road.

"There will be mothers and babies wherever we go," he said, "and I cannot compete with them for places. So let us march, mes enfants!”

And march we did, laughing at discomforts.

I think it was Grandpère's faded uniform and his Cross of the Legion that won us such kind treatment wherever we went. Old peasants touched their caps,

and the many soldiers we met saluted in brisk, military fashion. Once we came upon a regiment of English resting by the way, and they were no less courteous than

our own men.

It was the first time that I had seen any of our allies from across the channel. We heard them afar off, singing "Tipperary," their marching song, which soon became famous in France. I talked English to them, and they seemed glad to find a French girl who knew their language. They were all very merry, as if upon a holiday, men and officers alike, quick to laugh at things in which I saw nothing to laugh at, but always polite and pleasant. This was one of the few bright spots upon

our way.

We traveled the road running near the river Marne, crossing it first at Ville-enTardenois and again at Dormans, as it wound this way and that through the country where France had won her greatest victory. On every side were marks of that great battle. There was ruin everywhere, huts and châteaux burned and pillaged, whole villages leveled to the ground; bridges, roadways, and trees,everything one looked at was scarred and broken.

But there were still sadder evidences of this great battle of the Marne. Ah, the poor little mounds of earth, each with its forlorn wooden cross to mark the restingplace of a brave Frenchman. They were everywhere! Among the ripened, uncut grain, in the woods, on the hillsides, and in the valleys. We came upon them at every turn of the road-nestling under clumps of trees, in the corners of fields which still bore, in the soft ground, the footprints of the hundreds who had struggled there. When we looked down into the low-lying lands we could see, scattered here and there amid the autumn yellow, bare grayish patches, barred by rank upon rank of tiny crosses.

Oh, the myriad graves of France! They are the records of her glory and her triumph! She sent her sons to die for the freedom of the world, and by the thousands they have given up their lives. Here

they lay all about us, and Grandpère and little Jacques lifted their caps in reverence whenever we came close to these hallowed places. The peasants returning, one after another, to what was left of their old homes would pause a moment and, with bared heads bowed, murmur prayers for the eternal rest of those who were gone.

"My children," said Grandpère, as we walked along, "do not let us forget for so long as we live that those who died here have won the greatest glory. All the badges of honor,-the Médaille coloniale, the Médaille militaire, the Legion of Honor, what are these compared with the humble wooden crosses? They are the supreme decoration of heroes who have given everything. For the living, silk ribbons and stamped gold are well enough; but they are as nothing to the glory of the Croix de la Mort, the wooden cross. What living hero can claim an equal glory with that of those who fell, those heroes of eternity?"

"But what of those who sent them to their death, Grandpère?" I asked.

"They shall be remembered," he answered sternly. "The children of those who died will not forget who killed their fathers. Jacques, my boy," he went on earnestly, "when you are a man see to it that you do not trust the Boche. In the years to come he will pretend that he has changed; that he is peaceful, that he is not covetous, and that he is kind. It will be another lie, such as the Germans have told these last forty years. Do not believe. And when they talk of honor and faith, remember the wooden crosses of France."

To Grandpère, the soldiers we met were of much interest. It was not for the stories of battle they had to tell, but to learn of their spirit, that he was prompted to stop and talk whenever we encountered them upon the road. And if there had been any doubt in his mind about the endurance of our armies, it was soon set at rest. But we found that the poilus were not so confident of quick victory over the Boches as we who were behind the lines.

"We shall beat them, Monsieur," said

one, "that is certain; but it will take time, and many will fall. They are brave, these Boches; it would be folly to deny that. But in the end they must fail. Otherwise, Monsieur, we should all be happier in our graves."

One great bearded soldier we met, quite alone, sitting upon a bridge over a tiny stream. He was gazing out across a valley of cultivated fields, and there was a look of longing in his eyes. He saluted Grandpère, and we stopped for the usual chat.

"I am upon a furlough, Monsieur," he explained.

"And is your home near here?" asked Grandpère.

"Oh, no," he answered, pointing to the north. "I have a small farm not far from Péronne on the river Somme. The Boches are still there, and so I came out into the country to rest and to see the fields. It is not pleasant to think what is happening to my own little home-mais c'est la guerre," and he shrugged his huge shoulders.

"They will be driven out!" Grandpère spoke positively.

"That is certain, Monsieur," the poilu replied gravely. "We shall return when the word is given. They pushed us back, -no denying that, and a Frenchman does not like to go back. But we never lost heart. That I know, for I was in the thick of it, Monsieur. Always we said to one another: "There is Papa Joffre. He knows what he is about. The Boches will not fool him. And if he says "retreat"-good! We go back and wait till he says "advance." Our time will come.' And you see it did come, Monsieur; and it will come again. It is not for the poilu to think. Papa Joffre will do that. We fight, Monsieur. That is our only business, and we are ready.”

Although we had not expected it, our long tramp ended in the town of ChâteauThierry. We entered it after dark and found a hotel which had survived the fighting, of which there remained many evidences on every hand. We went early to bed, planning a prompt start on the

morrow; for although Grandpère had at slight hope that a train to Paris might be available, we did not count upon it.

And this was just as well, for the next morning we found that the railway was given over entirely to the transfer of the wounded from the battle-front to the various hospitals throughout the country. No trains for civilians were running, and we prepared to take up our journey afoot.

Just as we were about to start, a large military automobile drove up to the door of the little hotel. The soldier-chauffeur, who jumped out to inquire his way to Paris, was plainly English, and knew so little French that he could not understand the rather stupid concierge.

"Perhaps I can help you," I suggested, in English.

He turned to me with a broad grin of relief on his red face.

"I'm needin' it, miss," he said. "What with blown-up bridges and crooked roads, I don't know 'alf the time whether I'm 'eadin' north or south. As for talkin' this French-maybe you 'eard me?"

It soon developed that he was in haste to reach Paris; and learning that we were headed in the same direction, he offered to take us to the city, glad to have an interpreter with him.

I explained the invitation to Grandpère, who readily accepted, and the good-natured soldier-chauffeur bundled us into the big car.

Some two hours or so later found us in the outskirts of Paris, where our Englishman was familiar with the roads.

"Whereabouts in town can I drop you, miss?" he asked.

"At the Place de la Concorde," I replied, after consulting Grandpère, and soon we were standing in the center of Paris, with our bundles about us on the pavement.

"We are very much obliged," I said, as the chauffeur prepared to start off again.

"Je merci voo a 'ole lot, miss," he replied with a laugh. "I'll be talkin' French all right in a week or two; but if it 'ad n't been for you, I 've a notion there would 'a been a general in the British