"Well, let us see them!" begged Marie and her belle mere.

They were dying of curiosity to peep into the great box, so Judy unpacked for their benefit, and their eyes opened wide at her stack of shirt waists and lingerie and her many shoes.

"Two more suits and a great coat, silk dresses--at least three of them--and skirts and shirts of duck and linen!" exclaimed Marie. "And hats and gloves--and blouses enough for three! Not many war brides will boast such a trousseau."

So our bride began to feel that in comparison to the little Marie, she had so much that she must not worry about wedding clothes. Instead, she divided her store of riches, and making up a bundle with a silk dress and some blouses and lingerie, a suit and a hat, she hid it in Mere Tricot's linen press for Marie to find when she, Judy, was married and gone over the seas.

She well knew that the French girl would not accept the present unless it were given to her in a very tactful way, and just to find it in the linen press with her name on it and the donor out of reach seemed to Judy the most diplomatic method.

Madame le Marquise d'Ochte must be looked up again. Not only were Kent and Judy very fond of her, but they knew they could not show their faces to Mrs. Brown unless they had seen her dear Sally Bolling. This time they found her in the old home in the Faubourg. She had been to the front and come back to get her house in readiness for the wounded.

Could this be the gay and volatile Marquise, this sad looking, middle-aged woman? She had grown almost thin during those few months of the war. Her beautiful t.i.tian hair was now streaked with grey. Judy remembered with a choking feeling the first time she had come to the Ochte home on that night soon after Molly and her mother had arrived in Paris, when they had dined in the Faubourg and then gone to hear _Louise_ at the Opera. The Marquise had been radiant in black velvet and diamonds, a beautiful, gay woman that one could hardly believe to be the mother of Philippe. She had looked so young, so sparkling. She had said at one time that she allowed no grey hairs to stay in her head, but had her maid pull them out no matter how it hurt. Now it would take all a maid's time to keep down the grey hairs in that head, and would leave but a scant supply for a coiffure could they be extracted.

Kent thought she looked more like his mother and loved her for it. Her greeting was very warm and her interest great in what Judy and Kent had been doing and what they meant to do. She received them in the great salon that had been converted into a hospital ward. All of the Louis Quinze furniture had been stored away in an upper chamber and now in its place were long rows of cots. The floor was bare of the handsome rugs which had been the delight and envy of Judy on former visits, and now the parquetted boards were frotted to a point of cleanliness that no germ would have dared to violate.

"I left the pictures for the poor fellows to look at--that is, those who are spared their eyesight," she said sadly. "My hospital opens to-morrow, but I want the privilege of giving a wedding breakfast to you young people. I can well manage it in the small _salle a manger_. That is left as it was."

"Oh, you are so kind, but dear old Mere Tricot is making a great cake for us and she would be sad indeed if she could not give the breakfast,"

explained Judy.

"That is as it should be," said the Marquise kindly, "but am I invited?"

"Invited! Of course you are invited, and the Marquis and Philippe if they can be got hold of."

"They are still in camp and have not gone to the fore, so I will manage to reach them. Jean is very busy, drilling all the time, but a family wedding must be attended. Philippe is learning to fly," and she closed her eyes a moment as though to shut out the remembrance of accidents that happen all the time to the daring aviators.

Judy wondered if he had come in contact with Josephine Perkins, but said nothing as it was a deep secret that Jo was pa.s.sing off as a man and a word might give her away.

"There are many Americans in the aviation camp, and very clever and apt they are, Philippe says. I am proud of my countrymen for coming forward as they are."

"Yes, I think it is great for them to. I--I--think I ought not to marry Kent and go off and leave so much work to be done. I ought to help.

Don't you think so, Cousin Sally?" asked Judy.

The Marquise smiled at Judy's calling her cousin, smiled and liked it.

Kent looked uneasy and a little sullen. Suppose his Judy should balk at the last minute and refuse to leave the stirring scenes of war! What then? He had sworn not to return to United States without her, and unless he did return in a very short time, the very good job he had picked up in New York would be filled by some more fortunate and less in love young architect.

"Why, my dear, it is not the duty of all American girls to stay on this side and nurse any more than it is the duty of all American men to stay here and fight. Only those must do it who are called, as it were, by the spirit. You must marry my young cousin and go back to United States, and there your duty will begin, not only to make him the brave, fine wife that I know it is in you to make, but also to remember suffering France and Belgium. There is much work waiting for you. This war will last for years, thanks to that same Belgium who threw herself in the breach and stopped the tide of Prussians flowing into France. If it had not been for Belgium, the war would have been over now--yes, over--but France would have been under the heel of the tyrant and Belgium off of the map.

Thank G.o.d for that brave little country!" and Judy and Kent bowed their heads as at a benediction.

Kent kissed the Marquise for her sensible advice. He very well knew that Judy would have been a great acquisition to his cousin's hospital, and that workers were not numerous (not so plentiful at the beginning of the war as they were later). Her advice was certainly unselfish. He thanked her, also, for realizing that it was not up to all American men to stay and fight. He had no desire to fight any one unless his own country was at war, and then he felt he would do his duty as his ancestors had done before him.

"I tell you what we'll do, you children and I: I'll order out the car--I still keep one and a chauffeur so that with it I can bring the wounded back to Paris--and we will go out to the aviation camp and see Philippe and ask him to the wedding. You would like to see the camp, eh?"

"Above all things!" exclaimed Kent and Judy in chorus.

The broad gra.s.sy field, bordered by houses, sheds and workshops, presented a busy scene as the Ochte car drove up. Biplanes were parked to one side like so many automobiles at a reception in a city, or buggies at a county seat on court day in an American town. The field was swarming with men, all eagerly watching a tiny speck off in the blue sky in the direction of the trenches where the French had called a halt on the Germans' insolent and triumphant march to Paris.

No more attempt was made to stop the car of Madame the Marquise from coming into the aviation camp than there would have been had she been Joffre himself.

"They know me very well," she said in answer to Kent's inquiry as to this phenomenon, as he well knew they were very strict about visitors in camp. "I am ever a welcome guest here, not only because they know I love them, but because of something I bring." She pointed to a great hamper of goodies packed in by the chauffeur.

The car was surrounded by eager and courteous young aviators and soldiers, and Kent and Judy well knew it was not all for the _gateaux_ that the Marquise was so beloved. Philippe was summoned and clasped in his mother's arms. Her heart cried out that every time might be the last.

The Marquise was changed but her son even more so. His dilettantish manner was gone for good, as was also his foppish beard. His face, clean shaven except for a small moustache, was brown and lean; his mouth had taken on purpose; his eyes were no longer merely beautiful but now had depth of expression and a look of pity, as though he had seen much sorrow.

He was greatly pleased to see his cousin Kent and also Miss Kean, who, of course, he thought had gone back to America long ago. He remembered Judy always as the young lady he came so near loving. Indeed, he would have addressed her when Molly Brown had refused him, had he not been made to understand by his fair cousin how important it was to love with one's whole soul if married happiness was to be expected. He had, after that, gone very slowly in possible courtships. Molly's friend, Frances Andrews, had almost been his choice, but there was something of fineness lacking in her that deterred him in time, and he was in a measure relieved when that dashing young woman proceeded to marry an impoverished Italian prince. His mother was relieved beyond measure at what she could not but look on as her Philippe's escape. In fact, she had never seen but one girl she thought would be just right for her beloved son and that was Molly Brown.

Philippe was told of Kent's being shipwrecked and of Judy's having taken up her abode with the Tricots. This last bit of information amused him greatly. Judy told with much sprightliness of her serving in the shop and of her learning to make tarts. Philippe began to look upon his cousin Kent as a very lucky dog. He sighed when he promised to come to the wedding breakfast, that is, if he could get leave. Why did all of the charming American girls pa.s.s him by?

"_J'ai la France et ma mere_," he muttered, as his arm crept around the waist of that beloved mother.

"What are they all looking at so intently?" asked Judy.

"Why, that is a daring young American aviator who has gone to seek some information concerning the trenches of our friends the enemy. He is a strange, quiet little fellow. No one ever gets a word out of him but he has learned to manage his machine quicker than any of the nouveaux, and now is intrusted to carry out all kinds of dangerous orders. He looks like a boy sometimes and sometimes when he is tired, like a strange little old man. He is not very friendly but is quick at repartee and so the fellows let him alone. Speaks French like a Parisian. I have seen him before somewhere, but can't place him. I asked him once and he was quite stiff and said I had the advantage of him. Of course I didn't like to force myself on him after that, but I'd really like to be friendly if he would let me. See, here he comes! Look!"

They watched in silence the aeroplane sinking in a lovely spiral glide.

As it sank to rest on the greensward, many hands were outstretched to a.s.sist the grotesque little figure to alight. Judy recognized in an instant the person she had thought all the time Philippe was describing.

It was, of course, Jo Bill Perkins. She was swathed in a dark leather coat and breeches, with a strange shaped cap coming down over her ears.

The great goggles she wore could not deceive Judy.

"What is his name?" she asked Philippe.

"Williams is all I know, J. Williams."

"I believe I know him. Would you mind taking him my card and asking him to come speak to me?"

"Not a bit, but I don't believe he will come. Let him make his report first, and then I will tell him you are here. You are very charming and fetching, Mademoiselle, but I doubt your being able to bring Williams to your feet."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FLIGHT.

Judy felt that perhaps she was not quite fair to Jo to test her by this interview, but she did long to speak to her. If Kent and Cousin Sally recognized her, she knew full well she could trust them to keep silent.

Philippe crossed the field and stopped the daring little aviator just after he had made his report to the commander.

"A young lady is asking for you."

"A young lady for me? Absurd!"

"Yes, she has heard of your wonderful feats and longs to meet you,"

teased Philippe; and then added: "Really, Williams, you are superb."

"Not at all! Well, I am tired and don't want to meet any young ladies."