_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Pats her shoulder._) I'm sorry I told you if it makes
you cry. You are so little. But it was one hundred years ago. They're
dead now.

_Angélique_. (_Rubs her eyes with her dress and smiles_.) Yes, they're
quite dead now. So--tell me some more.

_Jean-Baptiste_. But I don't want to make you cry more, _p'tite_. You're
so little.

_Angélique._ I'm not _very_ little. I'm bigger than Anne-Marie Dupont,
and she's eight.

_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She's not eight till next month. She told me.

_Angélique_. Oh, well--next month. Me, I want to hear about the brave
'Mericans. Did they make this ditch to stand in and shoot the wicked
Germans?

_Jean-Baptiste_. They didn't make it, but they fought the wicked Germans
in a brave, wonderful charge, the bravest sort, the grandfather said.
And they took the ditch away from the wicked Germans, and then--maybe
you'll cry.

_Angélique_. I won't. I promise you I won't.

_Jean-Baptiste_. Then, when the ditch--only they called it a trench--was
well full of American soldiers, the wicked Germans got a machine gun at
the end of it and fired all the way along--the grandfather called it