together, pas?"

In single file they went down the embankment of the road--arm in arm
they crossed the field of gray mud, where their feet fell with the
sound of dough being mixed in the kneading-trough.

"Well, you've seen your wife, your little Mariette--the only girl
for you--that you could never open your jaw without telling us a
tale about her, eh?"

Eudore's wan face winced.

"My wife? Yes, I saw her, sure enough, but only for a little
while--there was no way of doing any better--but no luck, I admit,
and that's all about it."

"How's that?"

"How? You know that we live at Villers-l'Abbaye, a hamlet of four
houses neither more nor less, astraddle over the road. One of those
houses is our cafe, and she runs it, or rather she is running
it again since they gave up shelling the village.

"Now then, with my leave coming along, she asked for a permit to
Mont-St-Eloi, where my old folks are, and my permit was for
Mont-St-Eloi too. See the move?

"Being a little woman with a head-piece, you know, she had applied
for her permit long before the date when my leave was expected. All
the same, my leave came before her permit. Spite o' that I set