You don’t have to look very deep into the present situation to discover that, psychologically, it is queer.  Marriage is, after all, in so many classes, a habit.  Here are the women of the class to which I refer working very little harder than in the days before the war.  Only, for nearly two years they have had no drinking man to come home at midnight either quarrelsome or sulky; no man’s big appetite to cook for; no man to wash for or to mend for.  They have lived in absolute peace, gone to bed early to a long, unbroken sleep, and get twenty-five cents a day government aid, plus ten cents for each child.  As they all raise their own vegetables, keep chickens and rabbits, and often a goat, manage to have a little to take to market, and a little time every week to work for other people, and get war prices for their time,—­well, I imagine you can work out the problem yourself.’

Mind you, there is not one of these women, who, in her way, will not assure you that she loves her husband.  She would be drawn and quartered before she would harm him.  If anything happens to him she will weep bitterly.  But, under my breath, I can assure you that there is many a woman of that class a widow today who is better off for it, and so are her children.  The husband who died “en hero,” the father dead for his country, is a finer figure in the family life than the living man ever was or could have been.

Of course, it is in the middle classes, where the wives have to be kept, where marriage is less a partnership than in the working classes and among the humbler commercial classes, that there is so much suffering.  But that is the class which invariably suffers most in any disaster.

I do not know how characteristic of the race the qualities I find among these people are, nor can I, for lack of experience, be sure in what degree they are absolutely different from those of any class in the States.  For example—­this craving to own one’s home.  Almost no one here pays rent.  There is a lad at the foot of the hill, in Voisins, who was married just before the war.  He has a tiny house of two rooms and kitchen which he bought just before his marriage for the sum of one hundred and fifty francs—­less than thirty dollars.  He paid a small sum down, and the rest at the rate of twenty cents a week.  There is a small piece of land with it, on which he does about as intensive farming as I ever saw.  But it is his own.

The woman who works in my garden owns her place.  She has been paying for it almost ever since she was married,—­sixteen years ago,—­ and has still forty dollars to pay.  She cultivates her own garden, raises her own chickens and rabbits, and always has some to sell.  Her husband works in the fields for other people, or in the quarries, and she considers herself prosperous, as she has been able to keep her children in school, and owes no one a penny, except, of course, the sum due on her little place.  She has worked since she was nine, but her children have not, and, when she dies, there will be something for them, if it is no more than the little place.  In all probability, before that time comes, she will have bought more land—­to own ground is the dream of these people, and they do it in such a strange way.