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Marcel and his mother (whom, we think, the Germans left behind because of her too shrewd tongue) still take unbounded pride in the place. Even before repairs were made on her own cottage, Marie routed Marcel out of a morning to weed the flower beds and to fence off what, by courtesy, she calls the lawn. By this last manœuvre she renders difficult both the entrance and exit of our cars. She also refuses to open for us the wicket for foot passengers, probably because in the days of Mme. la Baronne’s hospitality there were none. Here entertaining was done on a patrician scale. A French officer who stopped in passing, told us how he was in the habit of coming each year to hunt in season. There was a gallery of famous pictures. In short, the Château of his friend, Mme. la Baronne, was the show place of the countryside. “To think,” said he, as he pointed to a sign still standing beside the gate, “to think that dogs were forbidden,—and yet the Germans came here!” Marie, having been left by her mistress in charge of the property, carries the responsibility with seriousness. A letter arrives: Mme. la Baronne desires that the vegetable garden be always locked, and that no trees be cut. It is she, doubtless, who directs that the lawn be preserved. “Poor Madame,” sighs Marie, “she little knows. Pray heaven she may never return to see what the Boches have done!”