and go in. The windows, being broken, are all boarded up to keep out the
dreaded drafts. It is a moment before I can see, though a quavering
voice that is neither man's nor woman's bids me enter. Gradually my eyes
make out two wise old faces of ivory in the obscurity by the hearth.
They are old, old--nobody knows how old they are.

"_Entrez, Madame_," and the old woman rises with difficulty, leaning on
her cane, and draws forward a chair.

"_Bonjour, Madame_," in far-away tones from the aged husband, too feeble
to move alone. I linger for some time with these two dear souls--for
they are scarcely more than souls. We talk of bygone, happy days, of the
war, and of their present needs--so few! Then I tell them I am American.

"American?" says the old man, peering into my face, "that
means--friend."

"Yes," I reply, "that means--friend."

Then I come to a wooden _barraque_, a hive buzzing with children. They
are clambering at the windows and playing in the dirt before the door,
all clad in a many-colored collection of scraps which an ingenious
mother has pieced together. A little boy, wearing the blue _callot_ of a
poilu on the back of his head, sits on the doorsill. He smiles and
stands up, and tells me his mother is inside. Within I find the mother
seated in a room of good-natured disorder, nursing her latest born. Her
lavish smile of welcome lights her broad sunburned face framed in tawny
braids, and she indicates a bench for me with the ease and authority of
a long practiced hostess. She sits there with the infant at her ample
breast, and on her face is written unquestioning satisfaction with her