PARIS, Nov. 25th, 1914.

DEAR VIOLET,

I wish I had the power to make Paris visible to you these late November days---some of them so clear and frosty that the very fires burn brighter for the sparkling air; some of them, as to-day for instance, misty and gloomy and full of such portentous bodings. Through the streets, everywhere, pass the ambulance motors---those of the Dames de France, those of the Croix Rouge, those of the American Ambulance, those of the many auxiliary hospitals, British and French---grey waggons, with their meaningful Red Cross. And autos---grey again, many of them---full of officers rushing from the Etat Major, from the quarters of Gallieni, up here by the Invalides, whirling rapidly through the streets, across the Pont Alexandre, up the Champs Elysées, out through the gates and on and on. Everywhere War is stamped upon the face of this city that you and I have known and loved so at peace. There are now, in these cruelly cold winter days, the tragic sights of faces worn and pinched. There are the constant sights of new mourning--oh, so many women in heavy crape! Then, too, everywhere soldiers---the petit pioupiou in his red breeches, and now and then the khaki uniform of England, and occasionally the Belgian.

Paris seems wonderful to me---never so adored! It seems to me these days that I carry it on my heart as something infinitely loved---as a human thing, threatened, troubled, menaced still---and which must be protected, is protected by the blood of many hearts.

A little while after my return, as you know through my letters, things seemed normal to us---almost secure. It has been tragically pathetic to watch that attempt for balance---that swinging of the pendulum of human reason and human character to the adjustment. Every one has tried to go on; industries have tried to lift up their heads. Along the Rue de la Paix, now and again, the shops would open, blinds lifting up like the cautious opening of a half-shut eyelid, as if to see if there were anything worth looking at. And the commerçant, anxious to do a little business, eager to keep on some of the sorely dependent workpeople. Doucet has kept his entire staff "à tour de rôle"---one lot one week, the next week the other. Many shops do the same. At Jeanne Hallée's, poor little Fernande has lost one brother in the trenches. You would scarcely know her; she looks fifty years old. And all the others we know have husbands and brothers and lovers "là-bas."

A few days ago, there began to come over me again that spirit of unrest---that strange, psychic foreboding that I had before war was declared last August. The fact of Bessie's marriage and the few little things that I have had to do for her, the fact that I have been perfectly settled and comfortable at home and found it so adorable and so sweet, even the hospital, could not dissipate, in my mind, that anxiety; and to-night I know what it all went for and meant. We have been told to-day that the Germans are at Chantilly. Just how true that is, who can say? But again, there is no doubt about it that Paris is in the scheme of those dreadful, dreadful hordes. Now that we all know what they are, now that we have the documents of their passing through the north, there is hardly a Parisian can bear the idea of a repeated late August and early September. Bessie confessed the other day that at that time, when Robert decided to remain alone at the Matin, she went down to the office and besought him, with tears streaming down her face, to leave while there was yet time. She told me that she was terrified---that it just seemed to her that she couldn't bear it. She had bought an enormous quantity of provisions---three armoires full---and decided to stock her rez-de-chaussé windows with them, label them "Delikatessen" and put out her American flag; then, with her police dog by her side, to take her chances! . . . 

To-day at Bessie's we had Monseigneur Battiefol, the évéque who is to marry her, to luncheon. He is a perfect dear---so clever and so charming. We had a lovely time together, we four, sitting around that pretty table on the eve of her marriage. . . 

I have just spent an hour with the Marquise de S. It has been lovely beyond words to see her again. She has just come home . . . Her son Henri was well the last she heard of him, and I really think that her great love and her constant prayers will keep him safe to the end. Each time we have been out together, we bought some warm comforting things or some delicacy to send him in those dreadful trenches.

The stories of courage are many. Lately a group of French Zouaves, with hands tied behind their backs, were marched by the Germans in front of their lines. As the French advanced to fire on the enemy, the Germans cried out, "Don't fire; you'll kill your own men!" And the Zouaves called out to their comrades: "Mais tirez-donc, tirez donc! C'est pour la patrie!" And the French fired, understanding that those who died thus for their country, with their bound hands, disarmed, died as gloriously as it is possible to die.

Goblet d'Alviella's documents have just come to me from Belgium, and I have sent them on to you. They tell their tale, do they not? And it's a tale that goes on without ceasing---one long drawn-out horror, from a people incapable of either humanity or soul. God knows that, if they conquer, I don't want to live in the same world with them.

This is the letter I sent to the New York Herald.

"It is with profound regret that we learn of the departure of Mr. Herrick from France.

"He is said to be one of the most popular figures of this present momentous time. The Americans and the other nations whose interests he has so ably guarded owe him a debt of appreciative gratitude. He has been equal to a situation demanding, besides the diplomatic talent which his high function presupposes, delicacy, understanding and kindness. He has met a difficult proposition with diplomacy and with heart. This combination has assured him a success which perhaps few Ambassadors have ever attained. He has helped thousands and offended no one. He has shown a wide charity and a tenderness toward the suffering that France will never forget; nor will the American citizens---troubled, anxious and in threatened danger---who received from him his counsel and his protection."

Mr. Herrick has made himself perfectly adored here. His letters from the great men of France were most appreciative, and the opinion of the public is that a colossal blunder has been made in recalling a man who understood the situation, and who handled everything with tact, brilliancy and affection for France. He has given me a letter to the American Ambassador in Rome---I am going to quote it to you.

"I commend in person Miss Van Vorst, whom you know personally and by reputation, but I do desire to especially recommend her to your courtesy and to your care. She has been so invariably sympathetic, so enormously useful in her hospital work at the American Ambulance---as she always is everywhere, where women's sympathies are drawn. You will be glad to hear of her arrival in Rome. I commission her as my Ambassadress to Rome to say good-bye for Mrs. Herrick and myself, as we are sailing on the Rochambeau. Whilst we have a singing in our hearts when we think of home and children, it is with ineffable sadness that we take our departure in the midst of the grief and sorrow which pervades this country, and as we leave the people for whom we have a sincere affection, etc., etc."

I cannot help but think that never in all your life would you find anything as thrilling as Paris is now, although at this moment I would not wish you here. The absence of the heavy vehicles, the absence of all clatter and that senseless rush of people who are spectators of life without, in a way, being participators, is a great improvement. All that has gone and now it seems as though only people who really mean something to the country remain---patriots, people of the soil and of the town, people doing their duty, people absorbed in caring for others, the grave and the self-forgetful, those who have the service of their country at heart and are in its employ. There is absolutely nothing in the city, as far as one can see, that is unreal, and you can't help but feel that all here are part of the web of destiny in a very real fashion, making history with the others ---part of this cloud that passes across the face of France. There are no places of amusement open, except the cinemas; although, hesitatingly, the theatres promised to come back, they have not, and probably will not for some time. Most beautiful flowers fill some of the shops---those great, luscious, deep-hearted pinks that you love---and here and there a little cart one deep blue mass of violets. And on the boulevards, in place of the cumbersome old buses, now rolling the p'tit piou-piou hither and thither, are queer old waggonettes, with the sign "Madelène-Bastille" posted up on them. . .

There was a touching reason for the giving of one special Médaille Militaire in a certain hospital. The soldier had an amputated leg, beside many other wounds, and his sufferings were great. But from that bed of his, during the most painful dressings, not only was there never a word of complaint, but there was such gaiety, such good cheer, such bravoure, such spirited greetings to the occupants of the other beds, that the whole poor amputated ward took courage from him as paling torches are lit from a superior flame. It is satisfying to think that at this time all courage meets its reward, for here, to this bed, the chiefs brought the decoration, not given with the profusion of the Iron Cross---the Médaille Militaire---and pinned it on his breast.

PARIS, Nov. 27th, 1914.

DEAR VIOLET,

Knowing your interest in what comes to us here, I want to tell you as much as 1 can about yesterday.

Bessie spent Wednesday night---the night before her wedding-day---here with me. All the evening I had passed waiting in the little study, putting in order old letters---letters that dated back from Bessie's first meeting with my brother. . . .  I am going to make, this winter, a collection of some of my correspondence, which is interesting beyond words and a real human document. . . .  We had a lovely evening together.

The following morning we both dressed tranquilly. Bessie wore a little black tulle dress with just a touch of blue at the bodice; and she had a fur cape and muff and a very pretty hat, and she looked sweet. The Marquise de Sers sent her auto, and Bessie and I went together first to the Mairie in the Rue de Grenelle. This quarter is familiar and sacred; we have both lived here for nearly fifteen years. There in the Mairie we found a beautiful old room opening on a lovely garden and set apart for us and the Civil Service. Monseigneur Battiefol was there in his long black bishop's coat, edged with red and the red sash, and the Secretary of the French Academy, witnesses for Robert, and Mr. Herrick and myself witnesses for Bessie, and then Bessie and Robert. They two sat in dark velvet chairs before the desk of the mayor, who has been mayor of this quarter for thirty years. In a second he had married them; in a second pronounced for the last time "Bessie Van Vorst."

The mayor then rose and made a short address. You know what a bore these things are as a rule, but this happened not to be. Its delivery took about four minutes, I should think, and it was very fine indeed. There, at this momentous and tremendous time in which we live, were gathered in that little room people of unusual distinction. I never heard anything so charming as the way the old Frenchman turned to Mr. Herrick, and thanked him for France, and what he said to Robert and Bessie, as you will read, was most apt.

We then went from there to the little chapel just at the back of my house, St. Clotilde, and dear old Bishop Battiefol married them in the sacristy, and we stood around him like a little family. There was absolutely nothing to jar, there were only gathered together people who were dear to each other---Bessie, Robert, and myself and Mr. Herrick, whom we care for very much, and the distinguished old priest and the representative of the Academy. It was a charming memory to gather and put away with many others in this country that has been so much to us all.

The three came home to lunch here with me: we had a delicious wedding breakfast and sat and talked around the fire until four o'clock, and then they went and left me alone.

Bessie looked beautiful, well and happy, and Robert so proud and glad. Little will change in their lives, but I feel once more my loneliness and how the receding tide goes back and takes with it each time some treasure and buries it irrevocably far out to sea.

Nov. 30th, 1914.

DEAREST BELLE,

This morning I was just sitting down for a long "winter's nap" when Webb brought me the news that Mollie's maid had asked that one or two things should be garnered from the Hotel du Rhin. Not to make too much of a long story, let me tell you that, on the day that Mollie left, Hoffmann and all his staff tore like mad for Germany, and the police let him get away. He was attached to the military authorities in Germany, he and all his people had been spies for years. Frs. 50,000 were handed to him from the German Embassy as he got on the train. Some say he was shot, and others that he escaped. The hotel and all its properties have been handed over to the authorities, and, as Pierre is going for a soldier, there only remained one day for me to get what I could of your things, as everything is to be sold at auction. Webb and I together danced over and got them all. I wonder if you can think a little bit how I felt going up those five flights of stairs in that cold, deserted hotel, past rooms that were not cold or deserted when I knew them before. Webb had already made one journey over there, and Pierre had refused to open the cupboard, telling her that there was nothing there of yours. You see, he could not very well refuse me. I got everything (and I think I got a little more!) and when, later, Webb returned to take your last belongings in closely packed clothes-baskets, she was perfectly flabbergasted---and as she is as honest as the day you can imagine how disgusted she was to hear Pierre absolutely refuse to let the maid of another lady take away her lady's things! He told Webb quite coolly that he and the concierge had to get something out of it for themselves. I have two trunks, and all the pretty things that you left behind. It gave me a real emotion to see them, and to smell the scent in Mollie's scent-bottle put the last touch to it all. If you want these things packed and sent to America, you must let me know, otherwise I shall keep them all here.

PARIS, Dec. 4th, 1914.

MY DEAR FREDERICK,

To-morrow will be my last day at the hospital, as I start in the evening for Nice, on my way to Rome. I have lately found myself sole nurse in a ward with nine men. I could not have borne the responsibility long---nor would I have been asked to. It is simply filling in, but I have neither orderly nor auxiliary. The men have been brought from other wards and are convalescing. Only two of them are in bed. By eleven o'clock in the morning, I have made nine beds, given nine men their breakfasts, tidied the ward---of course, the sweeping and cleaning are done by charwomen---and dressed the wounds of nine men, all alone. I have all my materials spread out on a little table---things for sterilising, etc.---and of course I work in gloves. They are mostly hand wounds, arm wounds and foot wounds, and those of the men who can, come to me at the table, to my little clinic. The first day when I arrived there and unrolled those bandages, I didn't know what I was going to find; but, marvellous to relate, I seemed to be equal to the task. There isn't anything in the world like the expressions on the faces of those men when you have relieved their pain and dressed them well, and they tell you that they have had a good night's sleep, thanks to you, and you see the colour in their cheeks and their temperature is normal and they are doing well. Oh, it's wonderful! One of the men's legs is amputated above the knee and that is the most serious work I have had to do in the Ambulance.

Bessie came in one day with gifts for my men, and knowing that I had natives in my ward, she brought them each a little mirror. You would not suppose that a piece of glass could give such joy. I wish you could have seen them gazing at their eyes and at their teeth, which, brushed in the hospital, had never been brushed before. One of them---Ali---would have brushed his teeth every hour if we had let him, and then he examined every separate tooth in the mirror. Think of it! Brought from those deserts, from the mud cabins and the tents, to be cut up like this, and to gaze for the first time at their image in a bit of glass in a military hospital!

Some of the natives are especially picturesque. In the ward next mine there are two Soudanese----not brown, but black. They are savages of the most pronounced type, and both of them are wounded beyond description. One of them has seventy-five wounds.

In another ward near mine there's a strong, splendid Englishwoman. She took a dislike to me at the first---didn't know why a writer should want to bother with her profession, but I made up my mind to win her, so I bore her severity. Well, a great deal goes down before determination and good humour, and Miss Hickman's disapproval went down when we were called upon to do some little services together and she found that I was serious. Finally, we became friends, and I've been in and helped her in the afternoon, when I had time, for she has no auxiliary either. She let me assist in the dressings, and I have grown very fond of her ward. It is full of English Tommies, and unless you nurse them and help those English boys, you don't know what they are. They are too lovely and too fine for words.

One perfectly fine young fellow has had his leg amputated at the thigh---his life ruined for ever. Another is blind, staring into the visions of his past---he will never have anything else to look at again. The chief amusement of these fellows seems to be watching the funerals, and they call me to run to the window to see the hearses covered with the Union Jack or the French flag, and they find nothing mournful in the processions. One Sunday afternoon, as I sat there, leaning against a table in the middle of the room, a few country flowers in a vase near by-for Miss Hickman asks for country flowers for country lads---I asked them if they wouldn't sing me a song that I had heard a good deal about but had never heard sung. "What's that, nurse?" asked the boy without a leg. "Tipperary"---for I had never heard it. "'Why, of course we will, won't we, lads?" and he said to his companion, only nineteen, from some English shire: "You hit the tune." And the boy "hit it," and they sang me "Tipperary." Before they had finished I had turned away and walked out into the corridor to hide the way it made me feel, and I heard it softly through the door as they finished: "It's a long way to Tipperary." I shall never hear it again without seeing the picture of that ward, the country flowers and the country lads, and hearing the measure of that marching tune. . .

I have seen Mrs. Vanderbilt constantly. She seems to be ubiquitous. Wherever there's need, she is to be found---whether in the operating-room, the bandaging-room, or in one of the great wards where she has charge. I have found her everywhere, just at the right moment: calm, poised, dignified, capable and sweet. But none of this expresses the strength that she has been to the American Ambulance since its foundation---the heart and soul of its organisation; and her personal gifts to it have been generous beyond words. I don't know what we shall do when she finally returns to America. She animates the whole place with her spirit and her soul.

NICE, December 19th, 1914.

M DEAR BELLE,

I would like to tell you of the day before that on which I left Paris for Rome, and make it stand out for you, as it did for me, in its picturesqueness, its tenderness and its interest.

I had told them that I was going to Rome, and I could not go on with my hospital work, and made all my plans to leave in a day or two, knowing that as my place would be more than filled I could desert my post; but just as I was about to take my leave one of the head nurses asked me if I would take charge of Ward 246, as the capable woman who had had charge of it since the opening of the hospital had succumbed to the long fatigue, and had contracted appendicitis from standing indefinitely for months, and from overwork, and was obliged to go. "There is neither orderly nor assistant nurse," she said, "and in that ward there are nine men, and you must do all the dressings." She seemed to take it so for granted that I would not at that moment go back on the situation, that you can imagine for nothing in the world would I have refused, but as I followed her into Ward 246 and realised that I was at last alone before the situation, for which for months I had been preparing, I felt a not unnatural qualm.

Her confidence in me, and the fact that she would not have asked me if she had not been sure, for some unknown reason, that I was equal to the moment, gave me the necessary courage, and I accepted the wonderful opportunity with the same joy that I have accepted all these experiences from the beginning.

I found myself before the task of dressing alone the wounds of nine men, but the joy of being quite alone, and having no one to speak to me, to disturb me or to give me any orders, was so new and so delightful that it was a stimulus. The perfect organisation of the hospital, the quantity of material on hand, the well-filled closet, with all the necessities for the merciful work, were great helps, and in a short time I had installed on the middle table of my ward my little impromptu dispensary.

The first one I dressed was on the left of the Ward as I went in---a poor, touching English chap of about thirty years of age. His left leg was amputated to the middle of the thigh, and I can assure you that when I undid those dressings and realised what was before me, I felt as serious as I ever felt in my life. He held up his terrible stump, helping me as well as he could. Well, I finished that job, covering the appalling surface with the healing balsam salve we use so much in the Ambulance, and left him high and dry and comfortable.

The other men, with one exception, were out of bed, and one by one, when I had made myself and my materials ready, I asked them to come up to the table to be dressed. The first man had the back of his hand blown off and was wounded in the arm, and one had no fingers. The others were minor wounds, only demanding cleansing and rebandaging.

I was on duty at a quarter to eight, and by eleven o'clock I had tidied the ward, made nine beds, dressed the wounds of nine men---after giving them their breakfast---taken all the temperatures, and just as I was about to sit down and catch a breath, the dinner hour arrived, and the serving had to begin all over again.

I was working in this Ward until the last moment, when I took the train for Rome, and I can assure you that when I turned my back on the Ambulance that night, leaving it all bathed round in the red of a rarely beautiful winter sunset, it seemed as though I could not go, as though the very fibres of my life were engaged there in that merciful and touching work.

I do not speak of physical fatigue, for it is hardly interesting, excepting that the eyes swim and the hands tremble when you want them specially strong.

I remember that one night, I had been asked to a dinner at half-past eight, which I was especially anxious to attend. It was the first time that Bessie and her husband had been asked with me to dinner at the house of the Marquise de S., and I did want to go very much indeed.

During my work in the American Ambulance, I always lunched and dined, whenever I did so, in my hospital dress, just as I was, as there was never any time to make a toilet, and this time I had finished, as I thought, my duties and was just about to turn away, after saying good-night to my men, and to give up my Ward to the night nurse, when I looked over to the ninth bed, in which the latest comer was sitting upright, with an appealing expression on his pale, agreeable face. He was an ordinary soldier from the trenches, brought in late from one of the other Wards, and I had supposed him ready for the night. I could not help but return to him for the second. I asked him with my heart almost failing, "Can I do anything for you?" "Well," he said, "I have not closed my eyes for two nights because my wounds are so dry. You would not look at them, would you?" When I took off his shirt I found he was bandaged from his groin almost to his armpits, and I knew that under those bandages would be a very serious proposition for me to face after twelve hours on duty. I went out to see if I could not find some one more responsible, but it just happened that there was no one, and how could I refuse to give what skill and experience I had to this contingency? When I unbandaged the poor thing I found across his back two wounds, whose width and whose gaping mouths cried to Heaven. I think it took me about half an hour to wash them, to cleanse them and bind him up again. By that time my hands were trembling and my limbs were almost beyond my own control.

I remember driving to Cousin Lottie's, going in in my white clothes, and up that beautiful stairway to the peaceful salon, where she sat with her two guests on either side of her. They were all waiting for me, with such deep sympathy for the sons of France and England, for whom I was caring as best I could. All Cousin Lottie's dear ones were on the firing line, and she sat waiting for news. As for Le Roux, you know what his news has been! I could not have gone into a more sympathetic audience, but I had nothing to say to them. I was tired beyond words and they saw it, and excused me and I went home to bed, and to those heavy dreamless sleeps that mercifully come after great physical exhaustion.

In the heart of the night I awoke again and again, thinking of the pale-faced man, who unwillingly and timidly had asked me, at the last moment, to soothe those dry and crying wounds. What if I had not done my work well? What if some carelessness on my part had infected those pitiful slits. I could not sleep, and at seven in the grey cold of the early morning I went back to my Ward.

I want you to imagine my joy as I opened the door upon that place which I had grown to love. My soldier was sitting up in bed, his cheeks quite pink. He held out one of his hands to me as I crossed the floor. ''Merci, merci, ma soeur, I slept all night as I used to sleep when I was a boy and did not know what war was." You can imagine that I was repaid for the loss of a dinner party and the cost of a little fatigue.

Of course this is only one tiny incident, and so much more can be told better than I can tell it, and the stories have no end.

VILLA SAINT-ANGE, NICE, CIMIEZ, Dec. 9th, 1914.

DEAR VIOLET,

It is a long time ago since you and I together saw the fronds of these wonderful palms cast their shadows over these sunny gardens. I have never been content or happy on this coast, as you remember. There has always been a spirit of depression here for me and an unrest. But coming down here this week, after four months of strain and excitement, there has been something peculiarly lovely in the abrupt change. The wonderful beauty of the place has appealed to me as never before.

This villa is nothing more or less than a palace, most beautifully furnished and all in the best of taste. I came down on the train with Mme. A., whose husband is shortly to be made Commandant, and we are alone here with the little girl, who is growing up intelligent and sweet, and it is a very agreeable étape.

On the train, Mme. A. told me her life. She was born of a peasant family in Burgundy, in the simplest, poorest milieu. At sixteen, she came third class to Paris, with frs. 100 in her pocket, and that's all she had in the world. An unknown girl, she took the first omnibus she saw in the streets, asked one of the passengers for the address of a simple little hotel, and went there alone to seek her fortune. Her first position was that of lingère in a little shop at frs. 25 a month. Today she is a millionaire! She has a Paris house, a house at Saint-Cloud, a château on the Seine, and this villa at Nice, besides her maison de commerce. She married and had a son who died; and you know the rest of her life.

It was hard to leave France and Paris, where daily I was more and more interested, and if I had been sincerely needed, I don't think I would have gone. But the hospital is full of helpers, and efficient ones, and many of the women were leaving---all of them anxious to go to the front; and that's where I wanted to go too. If I'd been a little more selfish and less considerate of my duty to Mother, I would have gone into Belgium with Ellen La Motte.

4, PLACE DU PALAIS, BOURBON, PARIS,
27th December, 1914.

DEAREST BELLE,

I cannot tell you how lovely Italy and Rome seemed to me going there, as I have just done, from this war-ridden country. Even in this time, the trip was made without incident or delay, and I opened the windows of my parlour at the Bristol on streets flooded with sunlight as golden as in the month of June. There was the fountain playing, the streets filled with such brilliant flowers, and the flock of red-robed priests fluttering toward the Pincio. The fact that they were Austrians made me turn my eyes away, and I realised that I was no longer in a belligerent country. Golden and brown, golden and brown, the houses all around gave and reflected back the ardent light. There was something to me very reposeful in this country, the third I have visited since the war, and although my heart and sympathies are so strongly with the others, Italy was like a happy island at whose shores I for a time moored my ship.

In times of peace I could not have afforded such apartments as I had. There was nobody in the Bristol, and they gave me the best rooms in the house---gorgeous salon, bedroom and bath, a room for Webb, and another far down the hall where I could sleep out of the noise of the streets, all for a price so modest that it was not even to be taken into consideration.

We arrived at seven in the morning, on a Friday, but I could not feel the day unlucky, there was something about it blessed, and the very streets seem to close in cordially around the Piazza Barbarini. Never have I liked Rome before. You know here, just around the corner, I almost laid down my life three years ago, and there under my windows another fountain played, and 1 heard its falling waters in my dreams of fever and unrest. Now it seemed to me almost as if I had come to take up the "vita nuova." I talked of them in delirium.

I bathed and went to bed to rest and sleep before sending out three letters, one to Mabel, one to G------, and my letter of introduction from Mr. Herrick to Mr. Page, the American Ambassador. I rested, but could not sleep; in the distance I could see stretching out the wonderful Campagna that surrounds Rome. I knew how the Pincio was warming there in the morning sunlight, and that amongst the little children with their nurses some sunny spot would find a little white bird of a baby, a motherless little bird, and I was longing to see her.

Toward noon Mabel came in; then there came a wonderful bunch of red and white roses, and when I came out from my bedroom Webb had already made the salon look like something of home.

Then there arrived a letter from the Ambassadress, asking me to tea, and I went and met at the Embassy some new friends and some old. Think of it, how strange it should chance to be so! There was Mary Debillier, my friend of twenty-five years ago, whose friendship I made here in Italy, and with whom I have not been since. How strange to find her there! Then there was Beatrice Moore, Ellie's child, never seen but once since her babyhood. It seemed so singular that these old relations, both of them connected with so much tenderness and feeling, should be there in Rome.

From the moment that I arrived in Rome, until I left, I had one kindness after another extended to me. The Pages took me in with open arms. "The Woman Who Toils" is one of Mrs. Page's favourite books.

Italy, though neutral in name, is full of war, and, to my joy, anything but neutral---perfectly mad for England, perfectly mad for France. The Germans go nowhere. Italy has over a million men mobilised and, my dear, such picturesque men! If one did not know how true the contrary is, it would seem as though they were preparing a game of war for an illustrated book! Brilliant soldier dresses---blues and reds, with lackadaisical plumes---debonnaire soldiers, gay soldier boys and fine looking officers---the Italian sunlight, the blue, blue sky overhead . . . . One cannot help but pray that the stern northern battlefields will not swallow up Italy's army in their dreary trenches.

I met Marion Crawford's first wife that same day, and she, too, took the trouble to tell me that "The Woman Who Toils" was one of Marion Crawford's favourite books. How kind people are! I never shall be known by anything but "The Woman Who Toils"; it seems to be universally known. That is because it is a human document, written from facts.

I dined and lunched at the Embassy whilst in Rome, and met the Spanish Ambassador, who was charming; and Mrs. Page took me to see Sir E. Rennell Rodd. I had a private interview with him and enjoyed it immensely. . .

After a short ten days of beautiful skies, wonderful walks and drives, after a vision of the Campagna that I shall never forget, I packed a steamer trunk and came back to Paris, leaving my maid with my trunks to join me at Genoa.

Rome to Paris---two nights and a day---back again into this grey winter city at its Christmastime, when war is written everywhere. Never had it seemed to me so precious and so deeply "home." I cannot tell you how sweet it was to me to go back into my little blue and white room, to see the crimsoning morning on Christmas Eve red over the roofs where frost had laid a cover of white. This winter mist is peculiarly sympathetic here, and everything about Paris seemed more adorable to me than ever before.

This afternoon we are all going to tea with Gertrude Stein, the Cubist, the title of whose last book is "Tender Buttons"---if you know what that means.

I suppose you know that Miss Enid Yardol has been doing perfectly magnificent work. She has been the means of helping to support from five hundred to a thousand people in this dreadful crisis. And speaking of it all, let me tell you that I have not heard one complaint, not one, from ruined families and from those from whom all has been taken. The only mention that I have heard of money and poverty and denial is from rich Americans; they have spoken of their reduced incomes, and have complained, but here, there is not one sound. The other day I heard from one of my friends who has lost five sons and all her fortune. I heard from her because she is interested in a work of charity and wanted some advice. I mention these facts because they give one pause. An American woman said to me: "I think that any American who comes out of this crisis with his income what it was before the war is an 'honte,' a disgrace. What have we done," she said, "to show we took part in what others are enduring---I mean to say, what have we done that has cost us anything at all?"

Next week I leave for Nice, to go down and stay with Mother until I sail. It has not seemed real to me that if God spares me I shall see you again so soon---I have not believed it true. When I left you I felt that it was for ever, that I should never see you again---perhaps that is so, and yet, on the other hand, the probabilities are that a better future than that is in store, and with this idea I am letting myself begin to realise the fact that you are there on that other Continent alive and well, and that I shall have the inexpressible happiness of seeing you once more. Tremendous lessons have been set before me since June---I could not hope to say that I have learned them, it would be too much to say, would it not? But I can at least say that I have read them through attentively and tried to take some of them to heart. I think we are all graver and that our natures must have deepened by the contemplation of the sufferings of others; how great these sufferings have been; the nobility and the grandeur of the little country that we as a country have stood up and seen wiped out; the industry and patience, the superb courage of the French; the English response, the magnificent handling of the military question at sea and overseas by the British Empire; the threatening of peaceful England, the touch of the invasion of those never before insulted or ravaged shores; how grave it is, how great it is! The graves that fill this land, the trenches piled thick and high with men who have died for an idea, because they were called, uncomplainingly; that stern courageous Front set toward an enemy whom some of them never even saw. Innocent, simple-minded men brought from the desert, brought from the land of temples, and across thousands and thousands of miles to fight for an empire not even their own by blood, in a land that can never be theirs. If without complaint, without cowardice, simple people can so die, surely we of the more civilised lands, and with everything in our favour, should be able uncomplainingly to live?

This will be my last letter from France. I know how anxious you will be to hear from me viva voce, something of what I have seen, but, you see, I have told it all to you far better than I can ever speak of it again.

NEW YORK, Jan. 30th, 1915.

M DEAR MOTHER,

I have just received a long letter from the Marquise de S., and it is so indicative of the spirit of the women of France at this moment that I don't think I can do better than quote it as it stands. I am sure you will be interested to read it.

"PARIS, 15 Jan., 1915.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,

"Thank you for your dear letter and for your gentle concern for my health and comfort.

"My life holds many difficulties and much that is inexpressibly painful to support; but a soldier's wife and a soldier's mother has a strong source from which to draw her courage.

"You kindly asked me how I spent Christmas and the first day of this New Year. The idea of Christmas, merry Christmas, was depressing. The clouds seemed dark and low and crushing, the atmosphere was heavy with doubt, pain and unshed tears. The streets were full of poor crippled soldiers in worn, ragged uniforms, but with bright faces, and there was no outward sunshine. But, dear friend, we women of France keep it in our hearts, close and warm beside our courage, our hope, our faith, our love. We mothers and wives and sisters feel that the moral strength of our soldats, our officers, our dearest and best who are struggling and fighting, must come from us, and with our heart and soul we send them uplifting help by our firm belief in them, our pride in their courage, both moral and physical, our tender ever-present love which covers them like great wings of strength and protection, however dark or discouraging may be their condition. We make them feel sure that the ceaseless prayers that we offer to God for them will be answered ere long with Victory and peace and delicious reunion with those they love. And most of all they must never suspect that our hearts are sad and lonely and hungry, and life a burden because of their absence. So no matter how bitter our struggles, we must ever have the rays of warm, tender sunshine coming from our hearts to theirs. They watch for this, they need it, they live on it; and we never fail them. When at first I was alone, I trembled, I was weary and lost without the strong, gentle young arm that had ever been beside me, and I wondered how I could live without it, when one day, about six weeks after my dear son had left me, I received a letter which said: 'Each day we go further and further away from you, I miss so terribly your strength. I can cheerfully endure all kinds of miseries and the discomforts of a soldier's life, but my hands are always reaching out to you for strength and comfort of mind.' This was a revelation to me, so the little card had told me my path. I then made a vow with my heart that never would I look forward in thought to any evil that could come to the dear son---at least my moral force should be ready for any battle. Then I gave him to God, and have ever since kept a calm courage which I know has been a force to him, and has helped me keep my vibrating nerves under control.

"You are perhaps wondering what connection this has with your question about my Christmas. It is simply, dear, the prelude to tell you why I could endure the anguish, the utter loneliness of that day. In the afternoon of Christmas Eve, I went to a convent which has been transformed into an ambulance. I went to take the poor men cakes and sweets for their Christmas dinner. T knew the Mère Supérieure well, and she begged me to stay and have a little dinner with her, and then assist with a few others at the midnight Mass for the soldiers. I was delighted. All day the dread of that evening alone with my sweet sad souvenirs of those other joyous Christmas Eves had hung heavily over me. After a little meal, the good Mère took me into the ward of the seriously sick soldiers. I spoke a little word to each, and then we went into the pretty, dark old chapel. A soft, dim, religious light pervaded the entire chapel, but after a moment our eyes were drawn towards the Altar, which was draped with flags and brilliantly illuminated by many flickering candles. On each side of the altar were grouped the soldiers (those who could walk) and the sisters, the nurses. The Messe was sung by them, and oh so heartily and religiously! The soldiers had been learning the music for a week. Then came the Holy Communion, and every soldier partook of it. Many of them walked with difficulty, but they helped each other, and all had the Blessed Sacrament. There was great peace depicted on each face as they returned to their seats. When the Mass was finished, the priest walked to the door, followed by the soldiers. The Mère was awaiting them and gave to each a lighted candle, and then they commenced to sing and marched slowly into the ward of the seriously ill men. The priest stopped before the bed of each, said a little prayer, and gave each poor suffering soul the Holy Communion, the Bread of Life. The priest was followed by the soldiers, each with his candle, by whose dim light we saw the pale faces, weary and worn, but illuminated with the joy that they also might receive this great consolation. After this beautiful ceremony was finished, and while we were still all kneeling, the priest gave the Benediction, and then slowly left the ward, the soldiers following, chanting. I can give you no idea of the wonderful beauty and solemnity of this service. We were all impressed by its 'perfect peace.' We hardly spoke on leaving the ward, but with a silent pressure of the hand we each one returned to his home feeling we had been very near the Mercy Seat of Christ.

"I had promised my dear son to go to the Communion at 9 o'clock, at the hour that he could receive it in his regiment; so I had little sleep, and when the day broke I went out in stillness and silence to meet the soul of my dear son waiting to find mine for our Holy Office. Need I tell you more of my Christmas? I forgot that I was old and alone, and only remembered that it was the fête of our Lord, who had come ici-bas to protect us all. Many dear hearts came to cheer me all the day. Pray, dear friend, that whatever may come, this peace may never forsake me.

"I send you our most affectionate souvenirs. My boy often asks for your news. ---

P.S.---This a.m. the sad news of the death of two nephews has come to me, and another who left with his brothers, who are both killed, is a prisoner, poor dear, and they have cut off one of his legs. Only God knows our sufferings."

NEW YORK, Feb. 1915.

DEAREST MOTHER,

It is impossible for us not to realise that the eyes and the attention of the Powers at war on the other side of the ocean are fixed and fastened upon us with intensity, with anxiety, and were at first so fixed with hope and belief. I speak of the French and English, the one speaking our own language, to whom we are neither foreigners nor aliens, with whom we are kin by race and speech, by ancestry and by tradition. The other whose friendship for us in the moment of our struggle for Independence is a thing that no American should forget.

These peoples have seen us from the beginning of this struggle manifest a certain ready generosity, such as the American people have never failed to display in crises and disasters, the unbuttoning of the general pocket to relieve suffering, the bigness of heart which evinces itself in the bigness of its donated sums. . . .

This they have seen. They have felt the wave of protest mild indeed, compared to the gravity of the crimes. They have looked and waited, expected and hoped, and I might say appealed, and this is all they have seen. The great American Republic, sealing her eyes to the dazzling horrors of the distant wars, has turned herself to her own affairs. From the very moment that the neutrality of Belgium was violated, from the moment the treaties regarding her welfare and security were insulted and trampled upon, the Germans offended every principle, outraged every ideal for which the United States stands. And further, the German's manner of entering into the kingdom of Belgium, their undoubted and undisputed acts of hideous brutality, crime, mutilation and slaughter have outraged, offended, and disgusted and horrified every humane and truly American citizen of the United States.

No general protest from us, from the millions of women who feel intensely and with all their hearts disapproval of Germany's war and her methods of warfare---no protestation from the citizens of this free and humanitarian Republic has gone forth. Had a general protest been launched at the very beginning, it is probable that the subsequent course of events would have been changed.

Of the ninety millions of citizens of the United States, are the Germans the most active, the most intense, the most alive, and the most vital? Is it possible that such a thing as this can be true? If this is not true, how can it be possible that the national voice, which the conflicting peoples have listened in vain to hear uplifted, when it speaks, speaks alone for commercial interests---can we say to satisfy the greed of a certain class?

That our commerce, that our industries should have free scope, that in no wise we should be either crippled or our prosperity imperilled is just and right, but at this crucial and delicate moment of the history of nations it behoves this great people to be extremely careful as to her methods and her modes of procedure. Americans have not hesitated to judge Germans: we must not hesitate to judge ourselves. In order to purchase a few interned vessels in the harbour, a purchase by which the Germans would be supplied with further means of carrying on their detested war, the forcing of an issue at this moment over the protests of England, over the protests of France, is like driving the very prow of the vessel of our State through the hearts and vitals of France and England.

We have been called the one nation in the world where public opinion cannot be stifled either by plutocracy or autocracy. It has been said of us that we are idealists, still one begins to doubt it, and to fear for the materialism that is choking us, and to draw the likeness between this materialism and the qualities that the German Empire possesses, and which has made them offensive to us, and made their propaganda such a dangerous factor at this moment in the politics of our country.

NEW YORK, February 10th, 1915.

DEAR FRIEND,

It seems so strange to be here again. I almost feel as though I had died and gone into another world! After all the excitement and emotion of the past few months, after such strain and such hard, impersonal work, it seems singular to be in a country where the War is not the chief interest. But I can't say that it is not a vital interest, even here.

At first, I was afraid to see people, for fear that they should feel differently to the way I feel. But I need have had no fear. They call America neutral---the Government calls it neutral: America is not neutral. I have not heard one voice that was not strongly for the Allies. Indeed any one with pro-German sentiments is persona non grata. They are not even invited to the houses where I go.

I found myself dazed when I landed. Even the fourteen days at sea---(I must tell you that on board was a group of newspaper correspondents, among them a man named Archibald. He was a pro-German, if you like! Some time, somewhere, I think the Kaiser must have looked at him or spoken to him, and from that moment Germany had him, heart and soul.)---Even the fourteen days at sea were not sufficient to separate me from the interests and the palpitation of the countries I have left. I won't say I can't settle down here; I am still dazed.

My rooms at the hotel were full of the most beautiful flowers, and it seemed so wonderful to have friends like these I find. I had forgotten, during these few months, personal relations and even friendly interchange of thought.

I shall not be able to go out here as I used to I am glad I only brought two dinner dresses. I doubt if I shall ever put them on. Before my eyes are still the spectacles of the wounded and the dying, as I have left them behind at the Ambulance. I cannot take life as a social thing, I am sure, whilst I am here.

The American women, as far as I can see, are doing all they can for the Allies. They are knitting like mad, to begin with. Hundreds of thousands of garments have been sent across the seas. This you know, as you yourself are receiving them all the time. There's not an entertainment given that is not for the Russians, the Poles, the Belgians, the French Red Cross, the British Red Cross. Money seems to pour out in one general stream towards you all over there. I am glad---I am so glad. And as for the volunteer nurses and doctors, why, they'd embark for France and England in bands every week!

Here in my little sitting-room, I have the picture Mr. Herrick gave me of himself, and a picture of the Ambulance; and I hark back to France with all my soul.

As for you, I know that in your heart and mind is just one thought---the safety of that beloved son of yours; and somehow, we all feel here that your love is so great and so enveloping, that your prayers are so constant and so full of faith, that he will be spared to you. We all feel it. We have all said it a thousand times.

I must tell you just a little touching thing. The other day, I came in late and went up to Mollie Andrews' room. She was dressing for the opera and stood there with her opera cloak thrown around her shoulders, looking radiantly lovely. I said to her:

"Mollie, I've had some bad news."

And before I could speak, the tears rushed to her eyes and she put out her hand and said:

"Oh, don't tell me that Captain Dadvisard is killed! Don't tell me that: I couldn't bear to hear it!"

Well, of course I hadn't heard that dreadful news, I am glad to say. It was something else, and I hastened to tell her so. I mention this to let you see how we all think of you and how deeply we take his safety to heart.

With my devoted love,

NEW YORK, February 20th, 1915.

DEAR JULIE,

I am sure that it would gladden the hearts of all you women over there, working as you are night and day over the wounded, if you could see the interest that the women here take in all that is going on across the sea.

I have not talked a great deal of my experiences, because they were so deep and so heartrending that words are slow to come; but whenever I have been willing to say anything at all about the scenes of grief and suffering, the sympathy and the tenderness expressed by our friends has been gratifying in the extreme.

I know you will be glad to learn that "Big Tremaine" is one of the "best sellers," and they say that if it had not been war time, it would have gone up into the hundreds of thousands. Isn't that just too mean for words?

I have been asked to meet the New York committee for the American Ambulance in Paris, and to say a few words about the hospital to the Board in Mrs. Whitney Warren's studio.

As I write, it is snowing hard, but the streets are ablaze with light The brilliance of Broadway and Fifth Avenue came to me like a shock, after darkened Paris and London.

With much love to all,

NEW YORK, March, 1915.

MY DEAR MOTHER,

A well-known German writer recently referred to us as a purely commercial nation. We began by being New Englanders and Yankees. That we know sharp bargains and drive them is true, but we are also, and have always been, idealists, and it has not yet been declared to us that the reasons for the present war, forced upon Europe by Germany, are not purely materialistic. We are also, as a nation, inclined to believe that it is not the purely materialistic things that triumph.

Germany is making us a pathetic appeal that her people may be nourished and fed. We are far from her, with her quarrels and her militarism. Militarism we, as a nation, repudiate. We have so far formed the public opinion that Germany has brought the war upon the world. Our ears are ringing with the cries of the Belgians and of the Poles, for whose famine and desolation Germany is responsible.

The American people want neither disturbances nor war. We are not inflammatory, nor quick to take issue, nor are we suddenly moved. We are a big body, and when we move the effect will be proportionate. Made up, as we are, of many peoples, our voice has a peculiar richness of tone; we absorb many colours, and the composite hue is deep. We are a crucible into which the varied races have been poured, but the result---though our ingredients are conglomerate---will be found to be strikingly unified.

Our Press does not inflame, it reflects. Our public opinion is so strong that no Government or course of events can drown the expressions of the American people.

We will protect our citizens and our commerce, Germany understands what it will mean to antagonise the United States. The question is one that reaches beyond this war time, that reaches into the future, and its results to all peoples. What happens now amongst us all will be difficult to forget. Let Germany in her attitude toward the United States be circumspect.

Every thinking German-American regards the present situation with the intensest interest, and many discover that the American Fatherland grips them acutely. If the German Emperor, according to an ancient boast of his, is ruler over millions of Germans in the United States, let him look to how he commands and what he upholds.

The question is not one of arms and ships alone. It is a question of commerce, economics, and of the wealth and gain of nations. Every hour that we in America are thrown more completely upon ourselves for our manufactories and our industries, we are finding out the great importance we are to ourselves, and what our isolation means to our greater commercial self-sufficiency.

I don't think you half realise over there the splendid work done for the American Ambulance by certain women in New York. When the subject was broached of an American Ambulance in Paris, to be run by American citizens, the task of raising the funds was entrusted to Mrs. Bacon, wife of the former Ambassador. Mrs. Bacon and Mrs. Greenough together have raised nearly half a million dollars---just think of it!---by frankly asking people to give, and without any general appeal to the public. Both Mrs. Bacon and Mrs. Greenough have been indefatigable and marvellous in their concentrated efforts. There is no doubt that by Christmas, 1915, these women alone will have raised far over a million dollars for France.

NEW YORK, March 18th, 1915.

DEAR BESSIE,

You can't imagine what an exciting thing has happened to me. I want you to give me your best wishes---I might almost say your prayers, for I shall need them. I am going to do the thing which almost all writers do at some period of their lives: speak in public. I won't say that I am terrified. It's far beyond that.

The other morning, I was sitting at half-past eight, taking a peaceful cup of tea with Belle in her little sitting-room----for we breakfast together---when some one called me on the telephone. (They begin here, you know, to call you on the telephone at any old hour. I've been waked at half-past seven; I've been called out of my bath many times. But you know what the American telephone is: it's an all-night and all-day job.) Well, the telephone rang and I ran to answer it with my teacup in my hand.

Mrs. Robert Bacon was at the other end and she said to me:

"I want you to speak for the American Ambulance before about eight hundred people next week. Will you?"

That doesn't sound like anything much, does it?

I drank two or three swallows of tea before I answered her, the receiver at my ear, and I felt like the Mad Hatter at "Alice in Wonderland's" tea-party---in a dressing-gown, with a teacup and saucer in my hand. I almost bit a piece out of the china. I was scared stiff.

"But I can't speak in public, my dear Mrs: Bacon. I've never done so in my life !"

"Yes, you can. You spoke at the committee meeting the other day; and you made us cry. And if you can make us cry, you could move a New York audience. Will you?"

Now I want to tell you that this was the most stirring invitation I ever had in my life. I felt right then and there that I could do it; and instantly, with the real conférencier's spirit, I said:

"But why eight hundred? Can't you get a thousand?"

And Mrs. Bacon laughed and said: "We'll do the best we can."

Well, that's all right on the telephone, my dear; but I didn't drink any more tea or finish my breakfast. And now the reality stares me in the face: that I've got to speak, that I don't know how, and that I shall probably make a most dismal and terrible failure. But it's for the American Ambulance, and I love it so much, and it's a real cause and a great need. Every pulse in my body beats for France and England and I am going to try. This is Thursday: I am to speak on Tuesday. Wish me luck.

NEW YORK, March 20th, 1915.

DEAREST MOTHER,

I went to Hackensack to-day with the notes of my speech in my pocket and I hoped some of it in my head.

I went alone. Mollie Andrews had promised to come with me to give me courage, but at the very last moment she decided she was far too fond of me to go out and see me make a fool of myself! But I am glad after all I went alone.

Rolling out on the trolley, I grew somewhat composed, but by the time I reached Mary's house I was terrified beyond words and would have sold myself for twenty-five cents to any one who would have carried me out of the state of New Jersey!

It was too odd to see the rooms full of people who had come to hear me speak. It seemed so naïve of them, to gather themselves together and go in and sit down to hear me. Of course you understand what I mean! But that wasn't the worst of it. Every idea I had ever had in my life vanished away. At the proper time, however, I managed to get into the room from somewhere and to the little platform Mary had had built.

There were azaleas from her greenhouse on the platform, and, something that brought me back to my more normal state: one of the old parlour chairs from my childhood's home. When I was a little girl, I used to sit in it. There was something comforting in the sight of it. It's strange what parts inanimate things play in our lives.

But neither the azaleas nor the old chair from home could have given me the courage to speak in public! Fortunately, however, Mary had conceived a luminous idea. She had asked a man with a beautiful voice to sing the "Marseillaise" and "Tipperary," and he was singing them when I came downstairs.

The notes of that song and the thought of what its music meant to us all in France inspired me. It carried me out of myself. The word 'France," the marvellous tune, the thought that I should speak for France, and that even my modest offering might be of some use, gave me courage.

Well, I spoke then, and, Mother dear, I wish you had been there. How wonderful that would' have been, wouldn't it, to have seen your face among those faces. I watched Frederick's. He was in the front row. Of course you know that there could not be a more touching subject at this moment than that of the wounded and dying soldiers in the hospitals. Many people wept, and after I'd finished they all crowded round me. I was unconscious of myself while I spoke, but afterwards I trembled so that I could hardly stand. Above all, I was so glad Frederick was pleased. It would have been dreadful to have failed in his house and in his town.

When I got back to the Devon, dear Mary called me up on the telephone. She said:

"Why, Hackensack's perfectly crazy about your speech! People have been calling me up from all over the town to thank me for asking them, and a lot of others have been calling me up to know why I didn't ask them!"

And I said: "Mary, do you think it was a success?"

And she said: "Your brother says he's never heard anything like it in his life!" (My dear Mother, you can take this for a compliment or not, just as you please. I felt pretty sure that he never had heard anything like it!)

Mary went on:

"But I'm awfully glad we didn't sell the tickets, because I don't think it would be good taste to make people pay to hear your sister speak."

And I told Mary that I quite agreed with her.

And this is only Saturday night, and New York (and Fifth Avenue) isn't Hackensack. But never mind! I hear the "Marseillaise" and I hear "Tipperary" ringing, ringing in my head.

God bless England! Vive la France!

NEW YORK, March 24th, 1915.

DEAR BESSIE,

I've always known that I had wonderful friends, but I never realised how splendid they all were before.

When I was down in Richmond once, in the old historic church there, I heard a negro grandfather say to his tiny little pickaninny grandchild, who stood by his side:

"Sonny, dis hyar am de spot whar Patrick Henry done make his Big Speech."

And the little nigger, with his eyes popping out of his head, asked:

"What did he-all say, gran'pa?"

"He said: 'Gimme liberty an' gimme death.'

"N'what did dey gin him, gran'pa?"

(That was a poser, but the old negro was equal to it!)

"Why, dey gin 'im bofe."

Well, when I made my "Big Speech," every one of my friends rallied round me in the most adorable way you ever knew. You see, it's all very well to just toss it off and take it lightly, my dear Bessie; but you can't realise what a truly big thing it was in my life. You see, you don't gather together some 500 representative New Yorkers---the best there are and the best we have---to bore them if you can help it. You must remember that New Yorkers are pretty well "fed up" with the best, and it's no easy thing to hold their attention! I knew this, and I realised that if I failed . . . ! It was the most serious moment, in a way, that I ever faced!

But, dear Bessie, I had the moment with me, if one may speak so. I had the most thrilling subject; I had facts and experiences, and I felt and I cared. I had seen too, and I had suffered much, and for weeks I had been forgetting about myself. That was the best preparation.

Dear Bertha Rainey gave me a delightful lunch and invited all my best friends. I walked up to Mrs. Hammond's house, however, alone again; and realised with all my heart that I didn't want to disappoint those who cared for me or Mrs. Bacon. I think I prayed. I was cold as ice.

Mrs. Hammond's beautiful ballroom was full, and after Brieux, who spoke for France, had ceased, then I took courage and spoke, calling to mind as well as I could all my pictures of the wonderful Ambulance.

Over on the right were the people, with the exception of you and Mother and Mme. de Sers, whom I love best in the world. Among the rest of the audience people who had known me all my life; and many strangers, and people who hadn't seen me for years; and people who had read my hooks, and who knew me by name; and many who didn't know who I was.

Mary Van Vorst heard a funny thing just before I spoke. One woman said to another, when Brieux had finished speaking:

"Well, I guess this next won't be much. Let's go."

And the other said: "Oh no; let's sit it out. It's about the soldiers, anyway."

And Mary told me that from then on, they never moved until I had finished, except to wipe away their tears. Wasn't that nice?

But the wonderful thing was to see the faces of those people that I loved. I can never, never forget it as long as I live. You see, they didn't know, of course, whether I would fail or not. How could they tell? It's so different when you know a person well. Nothing very much that they have to say astonishes you or carries you away. But to see them smile, to see them laugh, to see them weep, to watch the emotion that you yourself call forth on the faces of the people for whom you care and whom you know so well---why, it was (I think I may say) the most wonderful moment of my life.

I had the most touching subject in the world, in all the range of feeling: human sacrifice, heroism; what those wounded men endure, what they were, and the aspect of the nursing of the wounded. At any rate, even as I write to you about it now, I am cold all through.  . . .

No one moved from the time I began to speak until I had ceased, except, as I said before, to wipe away their tears. And even when I finished, they didn't move. There was silence all over the room.

I don't know if you would call it a success. That word doesn't interest me very much. Mrs. Bacon told me afterwards that she had received a great deal of money, very generous cheques, after my speech. I only know that I can't thank her enough for letting me do this. Apart from nursing at the bedsides of those wonderful men, nothing in my life has ever given me a deeper feeling of pleasure.

I know you will be glad to hear that it went off so well. I cabled you and Mother to-day.

May 13th, 1915.

DEAREST MOTHER,

I have let boat after boat go out without a letter to you, and on each one of these boats for weeks I have been intending to sail myself. At the last moment one after another of the people here, beginning with my brother Frederick, have begged and besought of me not to risk a life that seems to be precious to them, and I have, like a coward and like a traitor to duty, been weak. Of course, although the time seems very long, you must remember that I have said on each occasion, "It is only seven days more, and then I shall sail." Finally our choice was made for the Lusitania, and I can assure you that in spite of rumours no one had the slightest fear, but all the time I personally had a strange feeling of unwillingness to embark. You know that I had originally booked my passage on the La Burgoyne, and she went down; then on the Minnewaska, and she went down. And I should have sailed on the Lusitania without any doubt had it not been that Mollie Andrews was married on the Thursday, and in this way left her sister Belle entirely alone. I felt sorry for her sudden loneliness, and knew that although she suffered a great deal, she is very reserved. Remembering how I suffered regarding Violet, I thought I would stay one more week, just to be a little comfort to her, so on Thursday morning I went down and got back my passage money, very much to the dissatisfaction of the company, who urged me to go in a beautiful room that they had secured for me. I then went up to see Frederick, but I must say still with a great longing toward that comfortable vast ship. Frederick was absolutely decisive, and he himself sent the telegram saying that he forbade me to sail.

The Philadelphia went out the following week, and I was all ready to sail on her, but in the meantime those horrible brutes had sent the Lusitania to the bottom, and Thursday night again Frederick called me up and asked me, as a favour, not to sail: so did Bessie and so did her husband. What could I do? I feel that you are lying there frail and wretched, waiting for me, longing for me, and I cannot conceive of a more trying situation than yours, a situation, I am sure, borne with the greatest sweetness and patience. It seems to me a long crucifixion that you have gone through these last months. I shall never be able to forget what you must have suffered and endured, and all the pleasure and success that. I have had will be for ever clouded by the feeling that I have failed in my duty, and that I have caused you needless suffering and anxiety.

I have been afraid to sail now on account of the relations between America and Germany, and by the time you get this something will be definite. I feel too dreadfully, also, about Italy going to war, and nothing seems stable or certain.

I am very nervous and very tired and excited, feeling I have been a coward and unworthy in considering myself above others. I am afraid there will be no blessing for me now.

Bessie has come at last to this hotel with her husband. She is having a wonderful time, most amusing and interesting, and is dined and sought after everywhere. She has written all the best part of her husband's articles that have gone to France, and has worded all the long cables. It is extraordinary how splendid her mind is, how equal she seems to the situations. His lectures here have been very much liked; he has been successful and delightful.

We are thinking of nothing but the situation caused by the Lusitania horror. Our President's calm waiting and his apparent unwillingness to force an issue, whilst no doubt best for the country, has filled a vast majority with impatience and something like fury in many people's hearts. I think he is wise and that he will handle the affair in the best way. Certainly the American people will stand nothing more from Germany. There has been a strong anti-Wilson party, but now they are more united, because his note to Germany expresses to them the idea that we will brook absolutely nothing from them further, and has shown our abhorrence of their deeds.

My friends telegraphed me and wrote me regarding the Lusitania, and everybody has been most sweet and kind. My heart is longing for France, for the activity and the usefulness and for you, and to my duties and tender interests there.

NEW YORK, May 20th, 1915.

DEAR JULIE,

The deepest grief that the war has brought to me has just come to me now.

I went down to the Colony Club to a luncheon to-day, and as I went in, I saw, standing by the door, Mr. Bacon, an old friend of Cousin Lottie's. I said to him quite cheerfully:

"Have you news from France? How is Henry Dadvisard?"

"Henry Dadvisard? Why, don't you know? He has been killed."

Oh, it doesn't seem as though it could be true!

I don't know Mr. Bacon at all well, but I just seized his hand, and the tears poured down over my cheeks. It was so strange to hear it there like that, in that American club, so far away from my dear friend, whose anguish and grief I can't contemplate. It doesn't seem that it can be real. I know of no one more alive, more living; I know no man with more brilliant promise; and what this blow will be to Cousin Lottie I dread to think.

I had not intended to sail for Europe for some time, but I shall go this week. Not that I can be of any comfort or any consolation; but at least my presence and my tenderness will be there. I shall telegraph her to-day to say that I shall sail on Saturday.

With love to all,

To Miss M. Van Vorst.

TOULOUSE, June, 1915.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I thank you very tenderly for your card of sympathy in my immense grief. I have suffered so much that hope of better days is difficult for me to understand. You will remember that my dear boy was in Algeria for several years, and on returning often repeated the Arab proverbs to me. One in particular was often on his lips: "Only God and my own heart know what I suffer." God knows and I bow my suffering head and accept his will, and as the long nights awaken into day I feel that each one draws me nearer my blessed rest, my precious reunion with my best beloved. So I am waiting tenderly with many a tear and many a prayer for the lifting of the slender veil which separates us, when I also shall live with them in the light of eternal day, in the sunshine of God's presence.

Sadly and aff, yours,

C. DE SERS.

CLARGES STREET, LONDON, June 1st, 1915.

DEAREST BELLE,

You will think it strange, perhaps, when I say that I regret very much that you did not sail with me, in view of the danger of this strange crossing! . . . It was a curious sensation to find, as the days went on, and the danger (real or imaginary) grew and deepened, that one's attitude of mind adapted itself to circumstances and to fate. I can only speak for myself and judge as well as I may of the psychological state of the other passengers. When one is safely through an adventure, its colour grows dim and one is inclined to take oneself to task for ever seeing it in such vivid lights, but the vivid lights were there this time. . .

Mr. Marconi had received in New York, the night before he sailed, warning not to sail, as well as an anonymous letter. We were, to put it mildly, on the qui vive . . . . It was quite on the cards that the Germans would fire across our bow, force us to stop, and demand that Mr. Marconi should be taken off. . . - But I never heard the slightest expression of fear or anxiety from any one excepting a little actress, who kept herself up on gin and bromide, though from one end of the first-class cabins to the other, every soul on board was strained and tense.. . . . All day Saturday ---a divinely beautiful day---I scarcely left the deck, and remained there until five o'clock next morning. Part of the time I spent with a Mr. Trevelyan---the son of the famous historian---who has been to America to interest the United States in Serbia. He was a calm and agreeable companion. Together we leaned by the hour on the railing, watching one of the most beautiful moonrises 1 have ever seen, and I shall never forget the white and stainless possession of that May night on sea and sky. At any moment, in any second, we none of us knew but what we might be torpedoed.

Now I will tell you why we felt so insecure---given the fact that we were on a neutral ship. We received the news that another American boat, a freighter, had just been blown up. How were we to know whether or not that was an affront or an accident? How indeed! And then we also received a bit of news. (When I say "we," I mean Marconi and the captain.) This was the destruction of a submarine just outside the bar. No notice has been subsequently taken of this, nor will be officially, and how were we to know that a submarine was not lying in wait to impede our passage or to send us to the bottom of the sea?

Picture the atmosphere of the ship, with every lifeboat swinging free. I should think there must have been twelve or thirteen, six or seven on each side, and five or six enormous life rafts all cut loose and ready, and we who remained upon the deck had our life preservers and lifebelts at our sides.

If you had gone into my cabin you would have seen in my berth one of the most beautiful little girls you ever set your eyes upon, for I induced her mother to bring her up from the bowels of the boat and put her to sleep in my bed. You cannot think how charming that little brunette with her rosy cheeks looked lying there asleep in my room.

Well, of course, with a highly imaginative temperament, I suppose that I looked at the possibilities in a more varied manner than many, but I give you my word that I was absolutely prepared, as I hope to Heaven I shall be when the real time comes. One doubtless never is; I could not experience the remotest feeling of fear. Indeed, far less than at other times in my life. It all seemed so immense, so calm, so transcendent; all the things by which we are all now surrounded are so appalling and so beyond thought to conceive, and naturally an individual life seems a very small matter indeed.

I cannot tell you how peculiar it seemed to be once again here in Clarges Street, where I have been so often, under such peculiar circumstances during my nomadic and changeful life. Nobody can grow very sentimental about this in the face of what lies not very far away.

There are things that strike me here as they always do in England: its beauty and the real wonder that London itself is. . . I feel the same in France and otherwheres in this rich and marvellous old world. I do not like to say that it seems too beautiful to last. Much is so perfect that in the nature of things should be evanescent. How can beauty persist and remain?

The streets are full of soldiers now. Last night in the theatre, where I went alone, I heard, by the way, the tune I love so much and which you said you would give me to play upon the Victor, "Michigan." I saw several wounded officers, men with legs and arms bandaged, listening with the rest of us to the rag-time tunes. Of course now, as not before, the intense seriousness of it all seems to be more thoroughly appreciated and felt, and we are waiting for the result of the note to Germany,* and its effect upon the United States.

To-morrow I am going to Windsor for the night, and on Sunday I shall go to France and take up there whatever falls to my lot and to my hand.

Yesterday as I went out late in the afternoon I met the same old Punch and Judy man with the little mongrel dog, and it all seemed to me so intensely charming, so intensely full of colour, and after my long months in America I find my sensitiveness keener to it than ever before.

They would have made a good shot, wouldn't they, in getting Marconi? But he has eluded them and gone down into Italy to give his brain and his talents to his people.

They tell us that on the outskirts of London last night there were Zeppelins, and Zeppelin fires in consequence, but very little is known of the details. My secretary in Paris treats the London Zeppelin raids very lightly, for she tells me that there they have daily visits from the German aeroplanes, and that the bombs fell just around the corner the other day, and no one was even frightened.

*The First American Note.