voice soared to a scream. No, she would not, not she. If we chose to
come soldiering we must take the consequences, she had no sympathy
for us. She called several leading saints to witness that her barn
was full to bursting anyhow and there was no room. That was that.
She slammed the window-shutter and retired, presumably to bed. The
Corporal, who had been scouting round about, returned to report room
for all hands in the barn, which was quite empty. Without further ado
I pushed all hands into the barn and left them for the night.

Next morning, while walking in the village street, I beheld a
remarkable trio approaching. It consisted of a venerable cleric--his
skirts held high enough out of the mud to reveal the fact that he
favoured flannel underclothing and British army socks--and a massive
rustic dressed principally in hair, straw-ends and corduroys. The
third member was a thick short bulldog of a woman, who, from the
masterly way in which she kept corduroys from slipping into the
village smithy and saved the cleric from drifting to a sailor's grave
in the duck-pond, seemed to be the controlling spirit of the party.
By a deft movement to a flank she thwarted her reluctant companions
in an attempt to escape up a by-way, and with a nudge here and a
tug there brought them to a standstill in front of me and opened
the introductions.

"M. le Curé," indicating the cleric, who dropped his skirts and raised
his beaver.

"M. le Maire," indicating corduroys, who clutched a handful of straw
out of his beard and groaned loudly.

"_Moi, je suis Madame, Veuve Palliard-Dubose_," indicating herself.