The home of Mlle. Henriette Cuvru-Magot, with the gate open, showing part of the front garden
Their home—symbol of the native land—is still there. How could they have gone away from it? Could anything be more beautiful to their eyes than their humble dwelling—their little white house?
How clearly they understand now that love of one small corner of the earth, that love of home, which years of peaceful happiness had perhaps made dim.
Beloved spot where one has lived and loved and suffered, we have all needed this hard trial to show us how we cherish you.
So they are coming home.
And there, in the distance, where sky meets valley, our heroes lie dead.
Beautiful young heroes, flower and hope of our land, who have given their lives unfalteringly here, that our homes might be saved to us!
This thought pervades all the home-coming, and the gratitude of those who are returning floods forth to those who are no more.
Now the setting sun stains the sky with crimson, and forms, with bands of azure and of white, an immense standard which it spreads like a winding-sheet over those glorious heroes who have entered upon the eternal life.