I run out into the wet grass of the garden to gather all the roses I can find. I hand them to the soldiers as they leave us saying: "From your mothers—from your sisters."

Tears come into their eyes, poor fellows! One of the officers takes my hand, kisses it and says:

"Your reminding us of our mothers and sisters, Mademoiselle, touches us deeply. It is with much emotion that I tell you, in behalf of my comrades and my men, who are too moved to speak for themselves, how grateful we are for the gracious vision we shall carry away with us to the battlefield with these roses."

I am afraid of breaking down, so I turn away abruptly and go to distribute fruit to the soldiers.

Several weeks later I received from the mother of one of them a letter thanking me for the kindness I had done in her name.

No need to thank me, Madam. In the face of the feelings that stirred me at that hour—feelings that I could not put into words—this act was small indeed. Those brave boys starting forth to face the cannon that boomed so near at hand—how could I make them understand that our prayers were with them—followed them? This poor makeshift was all I could find to let them know at this tragic moment that I longed to serve as a bond between them and their loved ones who were so far away.

I could not help thinking, too, that if one of them were to fall, he would at least have this little flower with him, and so be less alone.

We were just giving the last fruit and flowers to the late-comers when one of them came to tell us he had left a side of beef in a store-room. "We haven't time to carry this meat to the wagons, so if you do not take it, it will be wasted. It would be a pity if no one used it."

What shall we do with it? And to think of those hungry boys who had no supper last night!

We hardly know what to do with this enormous piece of meat. But to begin with, there's only one thing to do. My aunt and I carry it with great difficulty to a clean place and, after a fashion, cut off steaks which we broil rapidly and put between slices of bread. The men take eagerly all they can carry of these meat sandwiches and start off on a run to find their chums, who, they say, are going to have a "bully old time" eating them.

Things strewn around everywhere indicate the haste of the departure.

The cannonade was very heavy again last night.

Yesterday—Monday—the battle was stationary. To-day it seems to be farther away; the firing is most intense over towards the Ourcq.

After ten o'clock this morning there was not a single shot from the enemy.

The English came down from Coutevroult this morning and have crossed the Marne.

The French cuirassiers found a few Uhlans at Bouleurs, and cleared them out.

About two o'clock this afternoon French soldiers marched past in the direction of the Ourcq.

In the ambulance of the 115th regiment lay a poor boy suffering with dysentery. They could not take him farther, so he was left at Quincy, where he died a few days later in terrible agony. He is to be buried in the Quincy cemetery.

It was just as I thought. There were wounded men who succeeded in dragging themselves to the banks of the Marne.

Sister Jules was summoned to dress the wounds of two Moroccan sharp-shooters who managed to crawl along by the river until they were opposite the village of CondÉ. There they were seen and picked up.

The only horse and carriage left anywhere about was sent to Pont-aux-Dames to fetch Sister Jules. She was going through deserted Couilly when a military automobile, driven by two officers, came by and stopped.

"Where are you going?" asked one of the officers in surprise.

"There are wounded soldiers in CondÉ. I am carrying dressings for one of them and cupping-glasses for the other, who has difficulty in breathing."

"Leave your carriage, Sister, and get into our automobile. We will have you there in five minutes."

Sister Jules accepted readily, thanking Heaven for sending her the means to reach more quickly the bedside of those who needed her care. When she began working over her two wounded men, one of them showed her triumphantly a bullet he had just taken out of his foot himself! The man speaks French a little.

Hussars on patrol on the hill at Montpichet have killed Bavarian soldiers, they say. A young Boche is brought to Pont-aux-Dames. He is wounded rather seriously, but he appears to be suffering more from fright than from pain. His fears do not subside until he sees the kind face of Sister Jules bending over him.

Our hospital—the annex at Pont-aux-Dames, which is only semi-official—is installed in a wing of the house of the great comedian, Coquelin, alongside the wing where aged actors have their home. Among the retired actors who are there at this moment are Messieurs Monti, Gravier, Didier, Victor Gay, Mesdames Clarence, Antonia Laurent, Marie Georges, and the director, Monsieur Hervouet. They are all presided over by their dean, AngÈle Desraux, ninety-five years old, whom they call "grandmother."

All these good people were much frightened last Sunday by seeing Bavarians go by. They were in their dining-room when they saw them pass. The pointed helmets, sixteen of them, showed above the sash curtains.

After luncheon the old people were taking their walk in the park when they heard voices not far away. Behind the tomb of Coquelin, to their great amazement, they saw the Bavarians sitting on the grass eating their luncheon. Suddenly two shots interrupted this rustic meal, a signal for the rally, doubtless, and the men mounted their horses and galloped off up the hill.