ar broke out;
that he had been very successful in England, and that his employer
had opposed his returning to France, and begged him to take out
naturalization papers. He said he could not make up his mind to jump
his military service, and had promised his employer to return when his
time was up,--then the war came.

I asked him if he was going back when it was over.

He looked at me a moment, shook his head and said, "I don't think
so. I had never thought of such a thing as a war. No, I am too French.
After this war, if I can get a little capital, I am going into business
here. I am only one, but I am afraid France needs us all."

You see there again is that naturalization question. This war has set
the world thinking, and it was high time.

One funny thing about this conversation was that every few minutes
he turned to his tall companion and explained to him in French what
we were talking about, and I thought it so sweet.

Finally I asked the tall boy--he was a corporal and had been watching
his English-speaking chum with such admiration--what he did in civil
life.

He turned his big brown eyes, on me, and replied: "I, madame? I
never had any civil life."

I looked puzzled, and he added: "I come of a military family. I am an
orphan, and I am an enfant de troupe."

Now did you know that there were such things today as "Children of
the Regiment"? I own I did not. Yet there he stood before me, a
smiling twenty-year old corporal, who had been brought up by the
regiment, been a soldier boy from his babyhood.

In the meantime they had decided what they wanted for books. The
English-speaking French lad wanted either Shakespeare or Milton,
and as I laid the books on the table for him, he told his comrade who
the two authors were, and promised to explain it all to him, and there
wasn't a sign of show-off in it either. As for the Child of the Regiment,
he wanted a Balzac, and when I showed him where they were, he
picked out "Eugenie Grandet," and they both went away happy.

I don't need to tell you that when the news spread that there were
books in the house on the hilltop that could be borrowed for the
asking, I had a stream of visitors, and one of these visits was a very
different matter.

One afternoon I was sitting before the fire. It was getting towards
dusk. There was a knock at the door. I opened it. There stood a
handsome soldier, with a corporal's stripes on his sleeve. He saluted
me with a smile, as he