As soon as the first real cold days began, about the end of November,
the women used to appear at the château asking for warm clothes for
the children. The first one to come was the wife of the "garde de
Borny"--a slight, pale woman, the mother of nine small children
(several of them were members of the school at St. Quentin, who had
declined our soup, and I rather had _their_ little pinched, bloodless
faces in my mind when I first thought about it). She had three with
her--a baby in her arms, a boy and a girl of six and seven, both
bare-legged, the boy in an old worn-out jersey pulled over his chest,
the girl in a ragged blue and white apron, a knitted shawl over her
head and shoulders. The baby had a cloak. I don't believe there was
much on underneath, and the mother was literally a bundle of rags, her
skirt so patched one could hardly make out the original colour, and a
wonderful cloak all frayed at the ends and with holes in every
direction. However, they were all clean.

The baby and the boy were soon provided for. The boy was much pleased
with his flannel shirt. Then we produced the red cloak for the girl.
The woman's face fell: "Oh, no, Madame, I couldn't take that; my
little girl couldn't wear it." I, astounded: "But you don't see what
it is--a good, thick cloak that will cover her all up and keep her
warm." "Oh, no, Madame, she couldn't wear that; all the people on the
road would laugh at her! Cela ne se porte pas dans notre pays" (that
is not worn in our country).

I explained that I had several, and that she would see all the other
little girls with the same cloaks; but I got only the same answer,
adding that Madame would see--no child would wear such a cloak. I was
much disgusted--thought the woman was capricious; but she was