Marjorie went without sleeping, as she is on night duty. It is a long train ride, including several changes and waits at small junctions, lunching on the way. Mr. — and Van Deeter met us at the station, for we went at their invitation.

First we "did" the cathedral, a lacy Gothic exterior, with row upon row of carved saints and gargoyles beneath its two imposing towers. The dignified façade is a mass of strange, fantastic little forms. The interior is like the inside of a jewel-casket, and the stained-glass, dating from the twelfth century, is the finest in France since the destruction of Rheims, a party-colored glory of flaming blues and golds and scarlets, tiny bits of glass through which the sunlight filters, breaking up the spectrum into its separate rays, and lighting up the dim and brown interior like a Persian rug aflame. They are poetry made in light instead of sound; history transparent, quaint medallions, alive with astonishing archaic saints and angels, stiff little dukes and duchesses in widespread skirts, with comically solemn expressions. Mr. A acted as guide, and A——— tried to photograph the dusky interior, after which we proceeded to inspect the palace of Jacques Cœur.

Jacques was the treasurer for Charles VII and a great voyager in his day, as the monkeys, palms, and ships carved on the mantelpieces of his house testify. On the ceiling of the chapel were Mme. Cœur and the two daughters, masquerading as chubby and somewhat Teutonic-looking angels in filmy garments. Below them, on a frieze, is his brave device with the words, "A vaillan riens impossible" ("To valiant hearts nothing is impossible"). Poor man! He died penniless, and exiled in disgrace by his ungrateful royal master, whom he had served discreetly and valiantly.

Louis XI we discovered, brooding and sinister, in a courtyard near by, a wicked, glowering man in bronze, hatching dark plots. We promenaded through the clean, wide streets of this charming town, and then went to the hotel for dinner, not so bad as it might have been. Being as much.

in a rut as we are, and even more girl-less than we are man-less, it was as great an occasion for the aviators as for ourselves and a distinct party for all concerned. So we were exceedingly merry.

The sunlight had not yet disappeared from the western sky when we wended our way to the station to take the only possible train home. In a sky of daffodil gold an aeroplane from A- soared above us, a bomb-dropping plane with beautiful, slightly curved wings.

Upon arriving at the chalet we found the garden gate chained; but Marjorie, being the thinnest female on earth, finally squeezed through, and opened it for me.

June 21.

Live and learn! I've just had a lesson in scrubbing as a fine art. Whoever would have thought that cleaning windows required deep and careful study!

Being told to polish the ward windows, I at first blithely obeyed. But those windows got smuttier and smuttier; and the more I cleaned, the smearier they became, until after an hour and half of hard work they were an opaque mess. As I leaned back, regarding them despairingly, ready to weep, who should happen along but Lady Frances herself.

"Let me show you how," she said gaily. "I know just how you feel about these windows. I've been there myself."

And with that she briskly seized a rag, gave a few artful twists and some persuasive rubs, until the pane glistened splendidly. So you see I am shining socially. God save the pun!

Great excitement on Sunday as the first and long-expected Americans appeared. They were two officers of the engineer corps, looking over the ground. I could have cheered when I saw their khaki uniforms; and if the hospital had been a ship, it would have capsized as, regardless of wards, wounded and dressings, every one rushed to the west side and hung out of the windows when it was noised about that they were there inspecting our "desert." The médecin-chef invited me down, and it was nice to see them!

An unholy feminine longing for millinery has seized upon me, and I nearly fell for the seductions of an adorable black velvet bonnet, with a pink ribbon on it, like an eighteenth-century portrait. But on my way home with the duchess a priest saluted us in the street, and turning to me, madame said, smiling:

"That was for you, my dear, because you are a Red Cross nurse."

So I am sticking to the moral vanity of my chaste blue veil, and forgoing the other.

What a storm center Paris is, to be sure! There are rumors of battles past, present, and to come; of attacks, counterattacks, of horrors and inventions as yet unknown; of peace by autumn on the one hand, of war for another ten years on the other; of treachery, treason, and intrigue; of strange things brewing in the East, of the collapse of Germany; of the collapse of France; of the coming of the Americans; of their failure to come. But tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and we shall see what we shall see.

Paris, July 5.

The Fourth of July was typical, sunny and hot, but a bit sultry even in the early morning. By 9:30 I was on the curb of the rue de Rivoli, near the rue Castiglione, with C-, waiting for the troops to pass, which they did shortly after.

First of all, an aëroplane hovered over us like a giant moth, just over our heads, and nearly low enough to scrape off the chimney-pots of the neighboring houses. It raged about, looping, turning, and screaming like a distracted bat beating against the light; gloriously daring, beautifully graceful, appallingly alive. Amid the incessant scream of its motor marched two stolid French regiments, two famous old battle-torn, faded, magnificent bodies of men, little men with dry, yellowish faces, and blue overcoats rain-beaten into streaks of greenish gray and brown. They trudged rather than marched, "the mute, inglorious legions." For what can the acclaim of multitudes mean to these hosts that battled at the Somme and held Ver

-ième

dun! The second to pass was the Infanterie, decorated with the Medaille Militaire, the green-and-yellow cord of which hung from every shoulder.

The crowd, lining the streets for miles, burst into a shout of applause; but some people cried, and there was a lump in my throat, too, as they passed on, like the tramp of Destiny.

There was a brief pause, while the aëroplane continued its howling career over our heads; then with a yell that reached to heaven the whole populace surged forward, broke the restraining ropes that held them, swamped the gendarmes, and C and I, swept along with the tide, found ourselves marching side by side with the first American troops in France!

People cried and they laughed, then they choked and did both together. Women and tiny children struggled to give a flower to some sunburned Yankee from across the world; but one and all they marched along with them.

The soldiers smiled under their broad. sombreros; but I, laughing with my lips, remembered the French troops that had just passed, and my heart cried. There were tears in C's eyes, too; and indeed it must have been so with all Americans. Yet who could wish it otherwise?

We marched along for several blocks before we could finally gain the sidewalk again, and even then it was hard to push against the tide and regain the hotel. Upon thinking it over afterward, it was quaint to recognize Indian faces among our troops, and I realized with a start how few people among the hundreds of thousands who that day greeted them knew that they were the red men, or singled them out, without war-paint and feathers, from among the straight, proud, highnosed men who passed before them.

Upon our return, there was Mr. W waiting at the hotel. He had just arrived in Paris, en route from Pau to the front, and right glad was I to see him. By that time it was hot and humid, and we were very tired. A little later we lunched together at an adorable teaplace, small and quiet, but quaintly fu

turistic as to decorations, where they serve delicious iced tea.

We spent a gorgeous afternoon, under the sunlit, cloud-swept sky, wandering in the fields and forests near Bagatelle, where fat bumble-bees buzzed musingly over the shattered roses of June, where other people, in other years, a century gone, have, like the bees, sipped the honey from June's roses.

a handsome rascal who came in jovially drunk while I was on night duty, and had to be assisted to bed. He must have been a brave man to gain the Croix de Guerre; but that he should be brave enough to come in again in that condition in the hôpital anglais, I doubt.

The ceremony over, with its brass bands and kissing, the officials motored out to the hospital, and there took place a touching,

At the hospital again, July 15. Very few wounded at present, and it seems almost too bad to have returned, except that one has no choice in the matter. The knitting goes on apace, and there will be a fine crop of mufflers. It is amazing how well these men knit. Several of them have now started sweaters, and are getting on well. I hope to be able to sell them, au profit des blessés, of course. But the wool! Nearly all of that from the œuvre is already used up in less than a week, and three tiny skeins from L -, costing ninety-two cents! Every spare minute is spent dashing about from one ward to another, a harried expression on my countenance, and arms and apron-pockets stuffed with wool, needles, and samples of work. But the men are quite wonderful.

Yesterday being the fourteenth, an armistice was declared in the matter of cleaning, scrubbing, and such-like menial tasks. That is the nearest approach to a holiday possible in a hospital. In the park at L- there was a review, at which some American officers assisted along with the French dignitaries. First marched some old troops, en dépot here; then they lined themselves up on the gravel open space in the middle of a grove of large trees. After them came the "Petit Bleus," the class of 1918, who are still in training. They are such kiddies, only nineteen, and somehow their dark-blue coats and red trousers seem altogether too large and important for them, their shoes too clumsy, and their muskets only heavy, old blunderbusses. Several of our blessés, some discharged, were decorated, among them

upon the wounded in bed. Our No. 4 was decorated, and só was No. 13, a clerk in a Paris department store. "Charley," in C Ward, got the most splendid citation of all, with the Croix de Guerre and the Medaille Militaire, for single-handed with his machine-gun and at the almost certain. peril of death he held at bay a large enemy force until relief could be sent.

Such of the blessés as could be moved were placed in beds side by side, washed, brushed, combed, and shined within an inch of their lives for the honor, and their beds were made smooth and neat. The ward was gay with flowers when the general and his staff appeared, headed by our fat little médecin-chef. Behind a huge jar of larkspur from a neighboring garden I hid myself with a camera, for I wanted a snapshot of the proceedings.

The aide stood at the foot of the bed of the first blessé, saluted, then read aloud in a shrill, quick voice his citation for courage, endurance, and his qualities as a soldier. The general stepped briskly up, pinned on the decoration, kissed him in businesslike fashion on both cheeks, shook hands, and congratulated him, then passed on to the next one. As they neared my place of concealment, I cocked my eye. and my camera. I had a really splendid view of all that happened, and especially of one poor dear, propped up in bed with many pillows for the occasion. As the general pinned on his medal, click! went my shutter, and at that precise moment a large, rotund French office clerk stepped directly in front of the camera, and after that it was too late to try again.

One great revolution has taken place since my few-days' absence in Paris. The

tide of trains and munitions, supplies and khaki-colored soldiers, has turned. Now, where the Russians were drifting downstream en repos, two weeks ago, tiny engines, with many cars behind them, puff and chug laboriously and persistently uphill toward the front. But they carry Americans now! And every morning, as we cross the railroad bridge, hurrying to breakfast, I wave to them passing.

July 24.

They are here, and coming in daily increasing numbers. I mean my fellow

countrymen. L is alive with them, mostly quartermasters, I believe, with now and again an inquisitive-looking ordnance clerk. All of them are making themselves persone grate with the people of L, who are rapidly brushing up their English, supposing they ever had any. Even at this stage of the game there are numerous promising little ententes cordiales going on on the benches in the park every evening. '

The blessés, by the way, consider your darling daughter something of a linguist. One of them said to me in his very best

manner:

"You are very accomplished, Mees!" "Comment?" says I, shpakin' the lang

widge.

"Oh," says 'e, "you speak French, English, and American." And, bless his heart, so I do.

Such a tragic thing has happened within the last few days! There is a blessé in D Ward who is partly paralyzed, a young man of fine physique. A little while ago his brother came to visit him, and spent his entire leave here. Their affection was beautiful to see, and they could not bear to be separated from each other even for a few minutes. It was very touching and unusual in grown men. Of the five sons in their family one was killed, a second had a terrible amputation up to his armpit, a third was missing in no-man's-land, our own patient is paralyzed, and the fifth and last was our guest. Two weeks ago, his leave being up, he returned to the front. On Tues

day came a telegram that he was "seriously wounded," that being the Government way of breaking the news to a man in hospital himself. Yesterday came the confirmation that he was dead. No words can express the awfulness of it. The poor man does nothing but lie on his bed and cry like a baby; and there is nothing to be done. His sobs are the most heartrending sounds imaginable. One would give one's eyes to be able to say or do one little thing to help or comfort him, but before such griefs and sorrows we poor human worms are as helpless as if we had never been born. Why does God torture us with the sight of suffering we cannot ease? Lest we become too proud of our own omnipotence?

The men are still enthusiastic over their knitting, and the sweaters are progressing splendidly. They use miles and miles. of wool. One of my pupils is now, on his own initiative, making a tiny white sack, bordered with pink, for his little daughter, aged three, whose picture he proudly shows me, fond parent that he is. After that he is going to knit a sweater to surprise his wife. Another one fancies his new accomplishment greatly, and intends. to knit by his fireside on winter evenings to the end of his days. The mother of a third one, a sweet-faced old thing in a stiff tulle bonnet, like an ancient St. Anne, thanked me for teaching her son to be useful, and gave me two funny little home-made cookies, which I loved. She asked me to come and visit them.

August 8.

Thank you so much for the pumps and candy. A, who just landed in France, and is already on duty at a hospital at the front, mailed them to me with a note in which he admitted to being sorely tempted to eat the candy instead of delivering it, as he keenly felt the lack of carbohydrates here. I replied that had he been over a little longer, he would have been more tempted to keep the pumps, considering the general dreadfulness of French shoes and their high-flying aviation prices,