men after he had seen them all safely
down, a piece of high explosive shell-dust bounced from the wall, and
embedded itself in the skin of his temple.

"By Jove!" he said, when he was safely in the cellar; "this is all very
well, but if a big one did happen to drop on this house above here, we
shouldn't stand the ghost of a chance. It would be better to be out in
the open. We might be buried by the falling bricks."

Fate was kind. But once, on regaining the open, some one noticed that a
weathercock had been struck off one of the gables.

"It just wanted to be twenty feet lower," said some one speculatively.

The Subaltern enjoyed very much his short stay in Poussey. The old Mayor
and his wife were a charming couple, and as usual did everything in
their power to make their Allies comfortable. On the other hand, it must
be admitted that the British Officers, with their unfailing politeness
and good spirits, made no small impression on them. The Subaltern once
heard the old lady say to her husband--

"Eh! Mon vieux, quelle difference! Ils sont si gentils, si polis ... et
les autres.... Ach! Les cochons!"

"What an impertinence," he thought, "to compare us!"

His coat was badly rent in the back, and once, while he was asleep, the
old lady took it, and mended it with thick red twine.

Of course they had the inevitable sons or nephews at the front, and they
had received no news of them. One had to listen with great attention,
and an air of solicitude, and murmur some little consolations.

One morning, the Subaltern forgets whether it was the first or second
day of their stay, the old man took him into his library. It was a long,
low room, fragrant with the smell of old books, and it looked out upon
the leafy orchard. All the volumes were beautifully bound and nearly
all were standard classics. He was surprised at the culture of this
little spot, tucked away in the intellectual desert of rural France, and
at the refinement of this man, who had been a farmer all his life. All
the while a great battle was being fought outside; one could not be sure
of life for a consecutive hour; at such a time it was amazing to be
fingering fine old books, in the quiet, sombre library, by the side of
an old man in a black velvet skullcap.

Eventually the Subaltern picked out a volume by Segur, not because he
wanted to read about war, but because he feared that the Voltaires, the
Rousseaux, and the Hugos would be too difficult for him