Pierre pointed a grimy finger at a small cake with pink frosting.
"That," he said briefly.

His mother smiled. "Ah, Pierre, that sweet-tooth of yours!" she
cried. "Like Marie Antoinette you think if one lacks bread one
may eat cakes! And now it is Pierrette's turn; only be quick, ma
mie, for it is already late."

"Eggs," said Pierrette promptly, "for one of your savory omelets,
mamma, and a bit of cheese."

The purchases were quickly made, and, having said good-night to
Madame Coudert, they hurried on to the little house in the Rue
Charly where they lived. When they reached home, it was already
quite dark. Mother Meraut hastened up the steps and unlocked the
door, and in less time than it takes to tell it her bonnet was
off, the fire was burning, and the omelet was cooking on the
stove.

Pierrette set the table. "I'm going to place father's chair too,"
she said to her mother. "He is no doubt thinking of us as we are
of him, and it will make him stem nearer."

Mother Meraut nodded her head without speaking, and wiped her
eyes on her apron as she slid the omelet on to a hot plate. Then
she seated herself opposite the empty chair and with a steady
voice prayed for a blessing upon the food and upon the Armies of
France.