Madame was so charming—the name of Planet was so well known—that the bag remained at the station, unopened, and the clever French-American mother hurried off in search of her supposed friends.
She found them down along the railroad. A little squad of uniformed men unloading automobile trucks.
"Vive la France!" she cried. "Vive la France!" and all the while her brown eyes were gazing hungrily, eagerly into the equally brown orbs of her son. It would not do to single him out from the others. To do so might result in difficulties for him and for her.
The two hours' rest was lengthened to six. Still the detachment waited by the roadside. Still madame and her mother waited.
Again the former's ready wit came to their aid. Madame was so distressed! The friends she had expected to find in the village had gone away. There was no place for herself and her mother to dine. Would the soldiers be so kind—so generous——
The soldiers would. They hospitably provided a tent for madame and her mother. It might be two days, the officers told them, before another passenger train stopped at that station. Madame, overjoyed, resigned herself to Providence and basked in the sunshine of her son's presence. The ban of secrecy had been lifted now. Their relationship was made known and pocket kodaks drafted into service as the troops were breaking camp.
"I will have the pictures developed when I reach Paris," said madame as she once more clasped her boy in her arms. "I have seen you again and I am content. That two hours' respite by the roadside that resolved itself into a two days' encampment was a special dispensation of Providence."
"It was a miracle, mother," declared the son. "There have been miracles all through this war. That you found me was one of them." Then he kissed her and marched away.