At the
lunch we were told all about it. True, there were tears shed in the
telling, and these not alone by these brave Frenchwomen and the little
girl, but it was a sweet, simple story of courage. Several times
during its telling the little girl ran over to kiss the tears out of
her mother's eyes, and to say, with such faith that it thrilled us:
"Never mind, mother, the Americains are here now; they will kill the
cruel Boches."
After dinner we walked amid the red poppies in the great lawn that was
the crowning feature of that white-stone home. On the walls of the
ancient house grew the most wonderful roses that I have ever seen
anywhere, not excepting California. Great white roses, so large and
fragrant that they seemed unreal, delicately moulded red roses, which
unfolded like a baby's lips, climbed those ancient stone walls. The
younger woman cared for them herself, and was engaged in that task of
love even before we went away.
I said to her, in what French I could command: "They are the most
beautiful roses I have ever seen."
"Even in your own beautiful America?" she asked with a smile.
"Yes, more beautiful even than in my own America."
"Yes," she said, "they are most beautiful, but they are more than that;
they are full of hope for me. They are my promise that I shall see him
some time again.
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