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It was then we bumped straight into Wickham Brand, who was between a small boy and girl, holding his hands, while a tall girl of sixteen or so, with a yellow pig-tail slung over her shoulder, walked alongside, talking vivaciously of family experiences under German rule. Pierre Nesle was on the other side of her.

"In spite of all the fear we had—oh, how frightened we were sometimes!—we used to laugh very much. Maman made a joke of everything—it was the only way. Maman was wonderfully brave, except when she thought that Father might have been killed."

"Where was your father?" asked Brand. "On the French side of the lines?"

"Yes, of course. He was an officer in the artillery. We said good-bye to him on August 2nd of the first year, when he went off to the depôt at Belfort. We all cried except maman—father was crying too—but maman did not wink away even the tiniest tear until father had gone. Then she broke down so that we all howled at the sight of her. Even these babies joined in. They were only babies then."

"Any news of him?" asked Brand.

"Not a word. How could there be? Perhaps in a few days he will walk into Lille. So maman says."

"That would be splendid!" said Brand. "What is his name?"

"Chéri. M. le Commandant Anatole Chéri, 59th Brigade artillerie lourde."