Judy emerged from behind the curtains which divided the family living room from the little shop, the platter of tongue held high. In her cap and apron, she reminded one of a Howard Pyle illustration for some holiday number of a magazine.

“Gee, what a beaut!” exclaimed the taller of the two strangers.

The one with the serge suit dropped it and made a rush for the girl. He had her in his arms, platter of tongue and all, before MÈre Tricot could rescue it. But that dame managed to extricate the big dish before any greater damage was done than disarranging the effect of a wreath of autumn leaves.

Hearts that were broken may be mended but platters of smoked tongue must not be dropped on the floor and smashed.

“Oh, Judy gal, Judy gal! Tell me all about it!”

“Kent! Kent! I thought you were drowned and have gone into mourning for you,” sobbed Judy.

As for Jim Castleman, in the most execrable and impossible French, he was explaining to good Mother Tricot how it all happened, and Father Tricot hastened to the shop from his carving to find out what it was all about, and then such a handshaking and hugging as ensued was never seen!

“We were all about to sit down to dÉjeuner a la fourchette,” said the ever hospitable old man, “and if the young gentlemen would come with us, we should be much honoured.”

The grenadier was equally pleased to have them and, indeed, Jim Castleman was so hungry by that time that he would have eaten cold spinach with his fingers.

How that old couple plied the young Americans with their delightful food and how they listened to their tale of shipwreck and rescue! When Kent told of their fooling the Prussians with Tutno, the childish language they had known in their youth, the Tricots laughed with such glee that a gendarme put his head in the door to see what it was all about. When Jim Castleman in a speech that sounded more like Tutno than Parisian French, informed his hosts that he was there to join the army of Joffre, old MÈre Tricot helped him to two more tarts, although he had already eaten enough of them to furnish dessert for any ordinary French family of four.

“And now, Madame,” said Kent to his hostess, “I want you to do another thing for me. You have done so many things already that maybe I should not ask you.”

“What is it, mon brave?” and the old woman smiled very kindly on the young American, whom she had not half an hour before called a Prussian and accused of stealing Judy’s serge suit.

“I am to be married very soon and I want you to help me out in it.”

“Married!” Judy gasped.

“Yes, Miss Judy Kean, I am to be married and so are you. What’s more, it is to be just as soon as the French law will tie the knot.”

“Well, of all——”

“Yes, of all the slippery parties, I know you are the slipperiest and I have no idea of letting you get away. Am I right, Jim?”

Jim was too busy with a tart to be coherent. He nodded his head, however, and when Kent put the same question to MÈre Tricot in French, she upheld him.

“It would be much more convenable if you were married. It is very easy to get married in war time. The authorities are not near so difficult to approach on the subject. I will see what can be done by the magistrate who married Jean and Marie, and no doubt if you interview your American Ambassador, much can be attended to in a short time.”

“Kent Brown, if you think——” sputtered Judy.

“I don’t think a thing, I just know,” said Kent very calmly. “Put on your hat, honey, and let’s take a little walk.”

“Well, all right—but——” Was this the Judy Kean who prided herself on so well knowing her own mind, calmly consenting to be married against her will? Was it against her will? She suddenly remembered the communings she had had with herself, in which she had cried out to Kent: “Why, why, did you not make me go with you?”

“I shall have to rip the lining out of my hat before I can go out,” she said quite meekly.

“The lining out of your hat?” questioned Kent.

“Yes, you see I went into mourning when—when——” and Judy, now that it was all over, still could not voice the terrible thing she thought had happened to Kent.

“Please don’t rip it out until I see you in it. Not many men live to see how their widows look mourning for them.”

“Widows, indeed! Kent Brown, you presume too much!” exclaimed Judy, but she could not help laughing. The hat was very becoming and she was not loathe to wear it, just once.

First MÈre Tricot must be assisted with the dishes, however; but then Judy got ready to go walking with Kent.

PÈre Tricot undertook to be guide to Jim Castleman, offering to lead him to the proper place to enlist.

“I’ll only look into it to-day,” said Jim, grasping Kent’s hand. “I shan’t join for keeps until I have officiated as best man.”

Judy, who had gone into Marie’s tiny bedroom to get into her rescued serge suit, overheard this remark and blushed to the roots of her fluffy hair. As she put on her white lined hat, she peeped again into the mirror: “Judy Kean, you are much too rosy for a widow,” she admonished her image.

MÈre Tricot saw them off, her good man and Jim to the recruiting station, and Kent and Judy to the Luxembourg Gardens, a spot hallowed by lovers.

“Well, well!” she said to herself. “The good God has brought the poor lamb her lover from the grave. I am glad, very glad,—but it is certainly a pity to waste all that good dye the butcher’s wife saved for us. It is not good when kept too long, either. I won’t throw it out yet a while, though,—some one will be wanting it, perhaps.”