day they reached
the large market town which marked the junction of the little river
upon which the village of Fontanelle was situated with the Aisne.

Mother Meraut was now upon familiar territory, among the scenes of her
childhood. She had often come here with her father when he had brought
a load of produce to sell in the town market. Here they disembarked,
bought a load of provisions, and once more resumed their journey.
Progress from this point on was slower than that of previous days, for
now the current was against them. Father and Mother Meraut took turns
at the oars, and they had gone some four or five miles up the stream
when they came in sight of something quite unfamiliar to Mother Meraut.
Stretching across the level meadows beside the river, as far, as the
eye could see, were rows and rows of tents. Companies of soldiers in
French uniforms were drilling in an open field. Groups of cavalry
horses were herded in an enclosure, and everywhere there were the
activities of a great military encampment.

"It's a French training-camp," cried Father Meraut, and he waved his
cap on the end of an oar and shouted "Vive la France" at the top of his
lungs. Pierre and Pierrette waved and shouted too, and Mother Meraut,
caught by the general excitement, snatched up Jacqueline, who had been
reposing in the basket, and frantically waved her. Some soldiers
answered their signal, and shouted to them.

Father Meraut looked puzzled. "That's not French," he said; "I can't
understand what they say. But they have on French uniforms! I wonder
what regiment it can be. I'm going to find out."

"We're not far from Fontanelle now," said Mother Meraut; "don't you
think we'd better go on?"

"We can't get there without stopping somewhere to eat, anyway," said
Father Meraut. "It's already eleven o'clock, and I'd rather find out
about the soldiers than eat." So they tied the Ark to a willow tree and
went ashore.

In a moment more they were in a city of soldiers, and Father Meraut was
making friends with some of the men who were lounging near the
cook-house, sniffing the savory smell of soup which issued from it in
appetizing gusts. Pierre and Pierrette sniffed too, and even Mother
Meraut could not help saying appreciatively, "That cook knows how to
make soup." Pierre laid his hand upon his stomach and smacked his lips.
"Pierre," said his mother, reprovingly, "where are your manners, child?"

At that moment two soldiers were passing--o