s. It seemed to
her who was straight and sturdy as a young tree both wonderful and sad
that _Madame_ should be seventy-seven, and so frail--_Madame_ who had no
lines in her face and such beautiful grey hair; who had so strong a
will-power, too, and knitted such soft comforters "_pour nos braves
chers poilus_." And suddenly she would say: "_Madame n'est pas
fatiguee?_" And _Madame_ would answer: "No. Speak English,
Augustine--Polly will pick up your French! Come here!" And, reaching up
a pale hand, she would set straight a stray fluff of the girl's
dark-brown hair or improve the set of her fichu.

Those two got on extremely well, for though madame was--oh! but very
particular, she was always "_tres gentille et toujours grande dame_."
And that love of form so deep in the French soul promoted the girl's
admiration for one whom she could see would in no circumstances lose her
dignity. Besides, _Madame_ was full of dainty household devices, and
could not bear waste; and these, though exacting, were qualities which
appealed to Augustine. With her French passion for "the family" she used
to wonder how in days like these _Madame_ could endure to be far away
from her son and daughter and the grandchildren, whose photographs hung
on the walls; and the long letters her mistress was always writing in a
beautiful, fine hand, beginning, "My darling Sybil," "My darling
Reggie," and ending always "Your devoted mother," seemed to a warm and
simple heart but meagre substitutes for flesh-and-blood realities. But
as _Madame_ would inform her--they were too busy doing things for the
dear soldiers, and working for the war; they could not come to her--that
would never do. And to go to them would give so much trouble, when the
railways were so wanted for the troops; and she had their lovely
letters, which she kept--as Augustine observed--every one in a
lavender-scented sachet, and frequently took out to read. Another point
of sympathy between those two was their passion for military music and
seeing soldiers pass. Augustine's brother and father were at the front,
and _Madame's_ dead brother had been a soldier in the Crimean war--"long
before you were born, Augustine, when the French and English fought the
Russians; I was in France then, too, a little girl, and we lived at
Nice; it was so lovely, you can't think--the flowers! And my poor
brother was so cold in the siege of Sebastopol." Somehow, that time and
that war were more real to her than