  14 September, 1914. AT the top of the hill, in the same spot where we watched with aching hearts the passing of the refugees, we are now watching for the inhabitants of the countryside, who are beginning to come back. photograph On the banks of the Marne It is a soft, mellow autumn day. Everything is wrapped in a delicate veil of mist, and the sun, sifting through gently, touches the houses with a pale golden light. Ah, but what a good and beautiful day! They are coming home! Yes, there they come, slowly, in little groups. Several black specks at the foot of the hill! Impatiently we wait until they are near enough for us to recognize them. How different is the look in their faces, and how different their whole bearing from that of the departure! We are happy to see once more even those who were most indifferent to us. They are like members of our own family returning from a long journey. Ah! How glad they are to catch sight of the roofs of their houses down below them in the valley! In a few words they tell us what they have suffered. They have experienced in their wanderings all the anguish of the homeless. How dark the future looked to them, photograph 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 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.
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