After that there was nothing to be said, and I know that Grandpère lost none of the respect in which the others held him. As for me, I loved him dearly, and everything he did was right in my sight.

One most glorious day we had when Papa came to Paris on a flying visit. I confess that when Madame Barton urged me to forsake my work at the Red Cross my protests were very feeble; but I promised to make it up by greater efforts when Papa was gone again.

He and Grandpère and I spent our happiest hours at Versailles, wandering about the gardens and talking, talking, talking. The weather was warm and sunny, though it was early November, and it was good to be out of doors with those I loved best in the world.

Papa told us of his soldiers. "Mes enfants," he called them, and never, I am sure, was there a braver or more devoted company. He recounted story after story of their courage in the face of the enemy, their endurance in the mud and water of the trenches, of the great trials they bore without complaint. And then, at the end, he spoke of André Cupin.

"You must remember to say a prayer for André," he said to me, "for were it not for him, I should not be here now."

"I shall remember, Papa," I said; "but tell us how it happened."

"My brave poilus are all such fine fellows that, except for the fact that he saved my life, there is nothing very extraordinary about it," Father began. "It is n't much of a story. To be sure, André won the Medaille Militaire; but, as he said himself, ‘Any of us would have done it, mon capitaine.' And that is true, too. Had I my way, my children should all be decorated; every one of them deserves it." "But please, Papa, the story!" I begged, for he was much inclined to go on praising his men, and seemed to think little of the fact that his life had been saved.

"Eh bien," he went on, with a laugh at my impatience, "we were in a front trench for ten days, and the Boches suddenly took it into their heads to make us more uncomfortable than we already

near

were. So they opened up a heavy artillery fire and kept it going day and night. That looked like an attack, and my children were already worn out. We should have been relieved before; but, under fire, there was no chance of it, so we made up our minds to be ready for whatever was to

come.

"Yet there was a worse trial in store for us. Mes enfants have the courage of lions, but they could not go on living, much less fighting, without food-and none reached us through the storm of shells in our rear. We all knew that those behind the line, whose duty it was to bring us something to eat, were ready to do their utmost, but it was considered impossible to reach our trench. You can have no idea, mon père," he continued, turning to Grandpère, "what such a bombardment is like. It is a very hurricane of flying steel. Shells of all calibers were exploding about us continually, night and day, you understand, and my men, faint with hunger, began to look at each other in a way I could not bear. There was no word of reproach, but they were growing mad. I knew a time would come when they could no longer control themselves. When they would cease to be 'mes enfants' and become a crowd of starved and half-crazed men. That, of course, I could not support. Food must be procured, and I went back after it myself.

"I started out of the trench as soon as it was dark, and I had good luck. I took every precaution, and crawled half a kilometer or more out of my way in order to avoid as much of the fire as possible. It would all have been of no use to my men if I had been killed; yet for all that, fortune was with me or I should never have got through. But it took the greater part of the night, and when I started back, with a huge bundle of food strapped on my back, I had to take the shortest route if I was to be there before daylight.

"Well, to make a long story short, the sun came up before I reached the trench, and there I was, a fine mark for the Boche sharp-shooters. That did not please me at all and made it more necessary than

ever to reach my goal; so I crawled on a little way at a time, very, very carefully. Soon I knew that at least one German rifleman had seen me, for there were single bullets coming my way, as well as the shrapnel and high-explosive shells. There was but one thing for me to do. My only hope was to go from one shell-hole to another, lying hidden for a time between each rush, praying that the Boche who had his eye on me might think me dead.

"Enfin, it became a sort of game between that hidden sharp-shooter and me— which could fool the other. I forgot all about the artillery fire that was blazing away about me, and thought only of the Boche with the rifle. And I was angry, too, that any one should try to stop me; one is not logical là bas. I was determined to get that food to the trench, and I did not care at all what happened after that. I would as soon have died as not. That is the way one gets sometimes.

"So on I went from hole to hole, staying as long as half an hour in one spot. Ah, it was hard to lie still, to be patient; but I had set my mind upon reaching the trench and took no risks. Up I would rush of a sudden, scramble across the broken ground, and tumble into the next water-filled hole, quite aware of the plopplop of the bullets striking near me. And at last I came in sight of our trench. A few more rushes and I should be in-and then, of course, a big shell came along and spoiled it all! There was a great crash in my ears and then-nothing. I was stretched out unconscious, in full view of the enemy, who would sooner or later put a few bullets into me to make sure that I was dead.

"What happened after, my lieutenant told me. My men did not know that I had gone. It was no use to tell them till I came back with food; but André Cupin caught a glimpse of me just as I was struck down. He thought he recognized me, but could not believe his eyes and rushed to my lieutenant.

"Have I seen a ghost, or is notre capitaine there?' he demanded, pointing back of the lines; and the explanation was given

to him. It seemed to those in the trench that I must be dead, but André cried that, whether I was dead or alive, I should be brought into the trench; and before any one could stop him, he leaped out, ran to where I was lying, and picked me up in his arms. He staggered back with me, making no effort to conceal himself, and brought me in. It is hard to understand why he was not killed; but that is the way it sometimes happens. I was only stunned, as it turned out, so, you see, André saved my life. That was all there was to it."

"I shall not forget him in my prayers, Papa," I said, after a little, and Grandpère nodded his head slowly up and down. He, too, would remember André Cupin.

"But I think he was not the only brave man," I added, a moment later.

"Oh, quite right," Father agreed. "Any of the others would have done as much, only-"

"I was n't thinking of the others," I interrupted. "I was thinking of you, Papa."

He laughed and patted my cheek fondly. "No," he said, "I was n't brave. In truth, I was very much frightened. You remember I told you it was n't much of a story."

CHAPTER XIX

THE HOLIDAY OF M. ROULEAU

LATER, I liked to remember what a beautiful day it was when I went to the station with Papa to say good-by. It had grown cool and crisp in the night, but the sun was pleasant. We walked briskly, saying little. We did not speak of our next meeting. That was a subject upon which we never ventured in those days, lest the smile we must keep upon our lips should be banished forever.

A hug and a kiss, a long look into each other's eyes, a brave shout of "Bonne chance," and a final glimpse of him as the train drew away-that was my farewell to Papa. About me were hundreds upon the same errand, all trying to be gay and lively-until those we loved were out of sight. I turned with the others and went

back to my daily tasks, very thankful to have seen him, even for so short a time.

The next break in our busy lives came with the visit of Monsieur Rouleau. He was a short, round little man, with a most

importance. I, who am living in safety behind the lines, can ill-afford to accept service of a man who places his body between me and my enemies." And he would listen to no objection, but went into

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solemn face, but there was an ever-present twinkle in his bright blue eyes as if, behind his outward gravity, he looked upon life as something of a joke. He at once showed an immense respect for Grandpère, and treated him as a highly honored guest to whose every wish he deferred. "Nay, Monsieur Rouleau," Grandpère would protest, "my desires are of the least

the kitchen and assisted Monsieur Rouleau, who, from the moment he arrived until his departure, spent his entire time in cooking such dishes as I have never tasted since.

"You cannot imagine, Monsieur," he confided to Grandpère, "what it means for an artist to be eternally boiling potatoes or making a mess they misname ragout! And the beans! Monsieur, my soul revolts at the sight of beans! It is not only the man who carries a rifle who is a hero in this war!"

Between Madame Rouleau and her husband there was, I know, a deep bond of affection, but, except that now and then we caught them exchanging a glance of mutual regard, they seemed but chance acquaintances and yet it was Madame's opinion of his dishes that counted most with Monsieur Rouleau. Our praises might be of the highest,

but they were as nothing if Madame his wife so much as lifted an eyebrow in disapproval.

Each evening Monsieur Rouleau, when all was in readiness, would go out into the streets and pick up the first gamin he met, to be brought back and filled with food.

"He would feed half Paris if he could," Madame informed us. And there was no

doubt of Monsieur's generosity; but he confessed to me, one day, an additional motive.

"You see, Mademoiselle," he explained, gesticulating with a saucepan he was about to use, "all men have their vanities. It does no harm for me to stuff a boy with food, and, in the years to come, when he is a man, that same boy will tell of a fine dish made by one Rouleau. He will remember and smack his lips, saying that the art is lost, perhaps. Who knows? It may be! And if then one asks this boy, who has grown to be a man, 'When did this Rouleau die?' and the answer is, 'In the year of the Great War', my name, Mademoiselle, will live again for a little? Yes?" And then he added pathetically, "Even for one who eternally cooks beans, there is danger là bas."

After this, although there was no hint of any depression of spirits, I could not help knowing what was in his mind when, after stuffing a small guest, he would escort him to the door.

"Forget not, my child," he would cry, "that it was Monsieur Rouleau, Monsieur Georges Rouleau, who prepared the artichaut printemps you have just eaten! In the days to come you will be glad to remember. Bonne chance, gamin, dream of me!" And with a wave of his hand, he would step back into the house.

So, for the enjoyment of his holiday, Monsieur Rouleau cooked, and in the evenings, when we were all together, he would invent dish after dish, while we gathered near the kitchen to watch him. Of course, there was not much of each delicacy-just a taste. It was subtlety of flavor, a new combination of ingredients, a tiny spoonful of something delicious, that rejoiced the artist soul of Monsieur Rouleau. "It is with the army that I cook to fill the stomach!" he would exclaim. "I found that the poilus do not eat-no, no! they stuff themselves. They could as well. be born without palates, for all they taste. But here it is different, and I am happy. I would call your attention to the bouquet of that morsel of étuvé, Madame Barton."

On the night before he went back, là

bas, he surpassed himself, and, no doubt, keeping in mind a pièce de résistance, he left us for a moment to find the usual gamin upon the streets. But, much to our surprise, he came back with a bright-faced young man of about twenty years, dressed in the uniform of an ambulance driver. A glance showed he belonged neither to our forces nor to the English; and he was somewhat embarrassed, as well he might be, for he had little French and could hardly guess why he was brought into the house.

"You will explain, Mademoiselle," Monsieur Rouleau exclaimed, handing the young man over to me. "Monsieur is an American gentleman, and I could not resist the temptation of introducing him to my art, so that a word of it might find its way to his great country. Explain Mademoiselle. I cook!"

It was not so easy a task for me. I had need of all my English to make this pleasant stranger comprehend that there lived in the world a man, who for the love of doing his best, went out into the streets to find one who might remember him after he was dead.

"And now, Monsieur, I hope you understand," I said at the end.

"Sure!" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. "It's a great stunt; but believe me, I was up against it when he grabbed me. All the same it looks like a nice party and I'm glad I came."

I must confess that I did not quite catch the meaning of all his words, though I wrote them down when he had gone, intending to ask Papa; but the young man laughed most heartily and seemed much pleased.

"I shall be glad to introduce you to the others," I began, hesitating to ask his name; but he replied at once:

"I'm Eddie Reed, with the ambulance corps attached to the American Hospital at Neuilly. I'm having an evening off."

He spoke as if everything in life was a gay experience, and it was not till a long time afterward that I discovered Monsieur Reed could be serious if he chose.

Altogether it turned out a very jolly