His face was powder-blown, an empty sleeve, was folded across his breast, and the medal of the Legion of Honor fell over the Sleeve.
As the girl and her elderly escort, presumably her father, turned about to leave, she unpinned the flowers and offered them impulsively to the aged hero.
"Take these, _mon brave_," she said lightly; "you have fought for France." The old man was confused and his faded eyes filled.

"For me, mademoiselle ?" "Surely!" "Thanks, mademoiselle, thanks! I saw _him_ when they brought him back from St.Helena, and the Old Guard waded out into the Seine.

Those were days.

Thanks, mademoiselle; an old soldier salutes you!" And the time-bent, withered form grew tall.
Fitzgerald cleared his throat, for just then something hard had formed there.

Why, God bless her! She was the kind of girl who became the mother of soldiers.
With her departure his present interest here began to wane.