How stupid of me," exclaimed my companion. "I might have known
though. We shall discover what we wish to know from Madame V."

We found the last mentioned lady and her daughter in a pretty dwelling
on the boulevard Jeanne d'Arc. After presentations and greetings:

"You are not leaving town this Summer?"

"Not this season; unfortunately our country house is at present
occupied by the Germans, and as the mountains are forbidden, and the
sea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I fear we shall have to
remain at home, for the time being at least. The garden is really
delightfully cool though--we sit out there and sew all day."

I asked permission to admire the exquisite embroidered initials which
both mother and daughter were working.

"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know we found that monogram on an
old 18th century handkerchief? We merely enlarged it, and really feel
that we have something quite unusual. But my table cloths are well
worth it, they were the very last that were left at the Cour Batave. I
doubt if any finer quality will ever be woven."

"Your daughter will have a wonderful trousseau."

"She will have something durable at least, Madame, a trousseau that
will stand the test of time and washing," replied the good mother
smiling blandly, touched by my appreciation.

"I still have sheets which came down to me from my great grand-mother,
and I hope that my own great grand-sons will some day eat from this
very cloth."

"But they will never guess under what strange circumstances it was
hemmed and embroidered," gently proffered the young girl raising her
big blue eyes and smiling sweetly.

"Bah, what difference does that make so long as they are happy and can
live in peace? That's the principal thing, the one for which we're all
working, isn't it?"

Such is the spirit that pervades all France. It is simple,
undemonstrative heroism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spite
of all. What more imperturbable confidence in its immortality could be
manifested than by this mother and daughter calmly discussing the
durability of their family linen, within actual range of Teuton gunfire
that might annihilate them at any moment?

As we were about to leave Monsieur S. came up the front steps. He had
been out in company of a friend, making his habitual daily tour of the
city. Like most middle aged, well-to-do bourgeois his attire was
composed of a pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at t