The woman's voice came trailing softly to them.
"They—want—"
"Maman;" the girl threw her arm protectingly over the woman's shoulders. "Jean is here. See, petite Maman; it is Jean. Your Jean."
The woman repeated the words in that gentle, plaintive singsong.
"They want—" and then she got to her feet. "Jean!—" Her voice rose shrilly crescendo. "It was that! My—Jean—"
"Maman;" the boy came and stood beside her. "You would not have me stay behind when they need me? You will be glad to have me go. Come, Maman, you must say that you are glad!"
"My little one—"
"Say, Maman, that you are glad."
"So young, Jean."
"But old enough to fight when they need me. Old enough to fight for France!"