twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand.

"_Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir_," he murmured. I protested,
but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for
the little girls--out there."

Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and
watching us. He waved his hat.

"_Bon voyage!_" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back
into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying
upon the intimidated and helpless public.




VAUCHELLES.


Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the
point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified _Calvaire_,
though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a
sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these
marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose
houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly
along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its
ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have
collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked
roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new
tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the