home packages with him.

Who were they? This one or that one? Mother Tesson would most surely
have been at a loss to name the lad who returned from his furlough
bringing two hens and a rooster to start her barnyard. She vaguely
remembered that he was from the south, on account of his accent, and
that he must have travelled across all France with his cage of chickens
in his hand.

They entered her home, smoked a pipe by her fireside, helped her to
wash the dishes or shell peas; talked a moment with her old man and
left, saying _au revoir_.

Another would come back greeting her with a cordial "_Bonjour, mere
Tesson_."

"Good day, my son," she would reply.

And it was this constantly changing new found son who would chop wood,
draw water from the well, write a letter that would exempt them from
taxes, or make a demand for help from the American Committees.

Thus the aged pair had lived happily, loved and respected, absolutely
without want, and shielded from all material worry. And when some poor
devil who has spent four sleepless nights in the trenches, on his
return steals an hour or two from his well earned, much craved sleep,
in order to hoe their potato patch, one would doubtless be astonished
to hear such a man exclaim by way of excuse for his conduct--

"Oh, the poor old souls! Just think of it! At their age. What a
pity."

We found Pistre making a careful toilet with the aid of a tin pail full
of water.

"This is a surprise, on my soul!"

We hastened to give him news of his family and friends.

Presently he turned towards Nourrigat.

"How about your regiment? Stationary?"

"I fancy so. We were pretty well thinned out. We're waiting for
reinforcements."

"What's become of Chenu, and Morlet and Panard?"

"Gone! all of them."

"Too bad! They were such good fellows!"

And our friends smiled, occupied but with the thought of the living
present. Paris, their friends, their families, their professions, all
seemed to be forgotten, or completely over-shadowed by the habitual
daily routine of marches and halts, duties and drudgery. They were no
longer a great painter and a brilliant barrister. They were two
soldiers; two atoms of that formidable machine which shall conquer the
German; they were as two monks in a monastery--absolutely oblivious to
every worldly occupation.

We understand, we feel quite certain that they will be ours again--but
later--when this shall all be over--if God