Part 42

They take the road with a steady step, loaded down beneath their bundles. But they never turn their heads for a last good-bye.

"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe, Maxence?" queried an old neighbour.

"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave."

"Well, then, it'll be for next time."

"If next time there is!"

There is that terrible conditional "If" in all such village conversations, just the same as in every conversation all over France.

Two years ago still another "If" hung on every lip. The hope that it entertained seemed so vastly distant that no one dared give it open utterance. But each in his secret soul nurtured and cherished the idea, until at length those whispered longings swelled to a mighty national desire,

"If only the Americans . . ."

They have not hoped in vain. The Americans have come.

FINIS