present. For we have a few rolls of wall paper which we have been
holding for someone who takes a special pride in her interior. It would
cover the cracked and damp walls of Madame Cat and would add much cheer
to her little room, besides keeping out the wind. Their faces are
radiant at the suggestion. The daughter will come to the _poste_
tomorrow for it. Can they hang it themselves? "_Ah, c'est facile,
Mademoiselle!_" and the mother gives me her recipé for a wonderful glue
that will hold for years. They accompany me to the street.

"You will come again soon, Mademoiselle, and see it for yourself?"

I promise eagerly.

Across the street lives Monsieur Martin. He comes from his house to
greet me and holds open the gate, a tall farmer in corduroys with
gentle, genial face. His wife had died during the cruel flight from the
invader, and he and his three sons have come back to the remains of
their old home. He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate.
Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully
made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a _cocotte_.

"It needs a woman's touch," he says smiling. "We are four men and we do
what we can, but--" he finishes with a gesture of the helpless male
entangled in that most clinging, exasperating web of all--cooking and
dish-washing! "_Ca n'en finit plus, Mademoiselle_," he exclaims in
humorous misery. "One has no sooner finished, when one must begin again.
Bah! It is woman's work," with a lordly touch of imperiousness. It is
the ancient voice of Man.

The next house is dark. No one answers my knock, and I lift the latch