baker, had made one of those lightning changes from citizen to soldier
and her mother had died a few weeks before. She was an only child. The
bakery had supplied not only the village but the neighboring inn,
which had been a favorite lunching place for automobilists. Traveling
for pleasure stopped abruptly, but as the road that passed the inn was
one of the direct routes to the Front, it still had many hasty calls
upon its hospitality.

Now, bread-making in France is a science, the work of the expert, not
of the casual housewife. The accomplished cook of the inn knew no more
about mixing and baking bread than he did of washing clothes; and
there was but this one bakery, hitherto sufficient, for the baker and
his wife had been strong and industrious. The inn was in despair. The
village was in despair. A Frenchman will go without meat, but life
without bread is unthinkable.

No one thought of the child.

It is possible that in her double grief she did not think of
herself--for twenty-four hours. But the second day after mobilization
her shop window was piled high with loaves as usual. The inn was
supplied. The village was supplied. This little girl worked steadily
and unaided at her task, until her father, a year later, returned
minus a leg to give her assistance of a sort.

The business of the bakery was nearly doubled during that time.
Automobiles containing officers, huge camions with soldiers packed
like coffee-beans, foot-weary marching regiments, with no time to stop
for a meal, halted a moment and bought the stock on hand. But with
only a few hours' sleep the girl toiled on valiantly and no applicant