"I hope we shall not see them driven back," Helen whispered in English.
She took the lead in insisting that Madame Pigou stop work. If she did not, they would not help her to-morrow. They walked back to the village with her.
"In America the women do not work in the fields," Phil managed to say in French.
"What do they do?" asked Madame Pigou. "Ah, I understand. They are all rich."
Jean who had gone ahead came running toward them with a letter which the postman had left during the day at the cottage. There was an inarticulate explosion of breath from Helen. She had recognised the nature of the letter, though the peasant woman had not.
"The first in our village!" Helen whispered to Phil.
He understood her meaning. How could they ease the blow for the mother was their thought, as her calloused fingers tore open the envelope? There was no way. They had to watch it fall.
"Dead on the field of honour!" she repeated to herself. She half closed her eyes as silently she adjusted herself to fate's decree, then folded the message and placed it in her bosom. "It is for France! It is war!" she said, this woman of a race that knows well what war is and what it brings. "Jean, you must be my man, now. Armand is dead!"
Jean, hoarse from cheering the battalion on the road, nestled against his mother.
"Thank you for helping me!" she said simply, turning to the others.