spot. We asked whether any of the inhabitants had returned.

"Just one old man," said the poilu, "who lives all alone in his cellar,
over there." He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an aged
man, white haired and erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly
handsome figure. His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect
sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness shocks
us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings. His blue eyes
were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and curling beard,
abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his complexion. And
on his head, above the silvery waving hair, was placed at a careful
angle a blue _callot_. He was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that
distinguishes the garments of those who work out of doors, and a
spotless white shirt was turned back at the throat.

"_Bonjour, Mesdames_," he greeted us, taking off his cap and came up for
a chat. We were amazed at his charm and intelligence. He had come back
thus alone "because, Mademoiselle, this is my home. An old man can best
serve his country by living off his own land. What good is he in a
strange province where they eat such ridiculous things, and where
everyone has the craze for machinery? Besides, the more one's home is
ruined the greater the obligation to return and rebuild it. _C'est un
devoir, Mademoiselle._" His place was here, unless--with a twinkle in my
direction--Mademoiselle would take him back to America with her, in
which case he would willingly leave. I laughed at the compliment and
told him to name the day and the boat.

Food? He had scratched a little garden by his door and had plenty, thank
you. Clothing? "Do I not look well dressed, Mademoiselle?" We admitted
that he looked ready for a fête. Company? "Ah, Mademoiselle, memories,