The processions of moving people amazed Ruth. She remembered what the Dupays had said about Aunt Abelard, and she began to see that there was a general exodus being forced from the country nearer the front in this sector.
It was a fact that the people did not look happy. Now and then one of the American military police walked beside a wagon, as though he had been sent on with the movers to make sure that they kept moving.
The girl asked M. Lafrane nothing about this exodus. Perhaps he knew no more the reason for it than Ruth did.
They came to a little dale between hills at last, and in this place stood a cottage and barns—a tiny homestead, but very neat, and one that had been unmarred by the enemy. There were even fruit trees standing.
There was a huge wagon before the door, and into it must go the household goods and the family as well—if there was a family. It seemed that the wagon had just arrived, and the American soldiers with it scarcely knew what to do in this case. There was nothing packed, ready for removal, and an old woman—the only person about the farmstead—was busy feeding her flock of chickens.
"You must come, vite, Tante," Ruth heard the corporal in charge of the squad say to the old woman. The automobile had stopped, for the road was too narrow for it to pass the wagon.
The old woman seemed to understand the American's mixture of English and French. She shook her head with emphasis.
"But I cannot leave my pullets," she said, aghast. "They will starve. You will go along, you Americans, and leave me alone."
"You must come; Tante," repeated the corporal, inflexibly. "You should have prepared for this. You were warned in time." Then to his men: "Go in, boys, and bring out her goods. Careful, now. Don't mess anything up."
"You cannot take my things. Your cart is already full," shrilled the old woman. "And my pullets!"