In the old house, heavily garlanded with ivy and climbing roses, at the end of the village, lived the old maid. Through vistas of thick foliage, the broken sky-line of tiled roofs appeared. In the west, the church tower showed dark against the sunset skies.

Here she had lived in seclusion these many years. Her pigeons feeding on the green lawn. Her rose garden, fragrant and sunny, facing the Eastern hills. Her peulailler (poultry yard), her dogs, her cats, filled the long hours of her austere life.

In solitude she ate her well-cooked meals. By the stone fireside (in other years the center of family life and gaiety) she sat in the evenings reading her Figaro, with her knitting in the recesses of the Louis XVI "tricoteuse" close at hand in case the print became blurred, which so often happened of late. Meditating, her pure thoughts far from the world and its stormy passions, her judgment became, perhaps, too severe; her charity a trifle too customary and censorious. All her actions were the result of axioms and precepts laid down years ago by long-dead parents. To her the past shone with a glorious light of Humanity and Youth, full of kindly people and cheerful pleasures and gay days. The present, so solitary and sad, had crept upon her unperceived, to find her with wrinkling brow and graying hair, more and more lonely.

Every morning at early mass she looked with noncomprehension into the faces of the elderly women—her comtemporaries—mothers these many years. Long ago they loved and married, leaving "la Mademoiselle" to her patrician seclusion up at the "great house." Lusty youths and strong, fresh-faced girls clustered about these contemporaries; sweet-faced young women, holding babies against their rounded breasts; boys touched their caps in awe as she left the church; girls smiled, blushing and demure; children sucked their thumbs and bobbed courtesies; but to none was she vital or important. To them the world was full of busy pleasures and activities, of warm summer days and young joys; to her, bending over her endless tapestry-work in the silence of the old manor, the world seemed trite indeed. Her home was so orderly, so clean, so proper, so remote from life. No muddy footprints on the wax floors, no child's toys forgotten in the corner, no cap or jacket thrown carelessly on disturbed furniture. Her apartments were sweet with lavender and roses, but tobacco smoke was a stranger to their antique propriety.

Now, suddenly, all these quiet ways, these time-honored habits were destroyed. War broke over France and she, with countless of her countrywomen, donned the white linen gown embroidered with that cross-of-red emblem of so many sacrifices and devotions. The hastily-installed hospital became her only thought; all her energy, care, and patience must be brought to the aid of the broken men as her tribute to the defenders of France.

In the long whitewashed hall, on whose blank walls the crucifix hung alone, stood the double row of beds, where lay these valiant fellows. Young boys of eighteen and twenty, arms and legs in plaster or bound in bloodstained bandages; forced, poor chaps, to the sight of such horrors on the battlefields as to remove forever their youthful joyance of life. Older men, bearded and bronzed, talked to her of their family life; of their wives and children; of the little humdrum everyday experiences, so unknown to her, so commonplace and vital to them. Gone for her the tranquil days of yester-year, her collection of laces, her bibelets, her books, her revues—all her souvenirs of years of sedate living and tranquil seclusion.

Only the maps of the battlefields interested her now; the long, hard duties of the Red Cross nurse were more entrancing than her most delightful journeys in Italy, or her summers in Switzerland. Many things she saw, heard, and was obliged to do, she was often shocked and horrified, but courage, patience and skill were daily demanded of her. A great endurance necessary for such arduous work, and her compassion ever inspired renewed effort. Life and death were there in frightful reality before her eyes, so to the round-shouldered, gray-headed woman these great facts became the motive power of her life. She became the willing, compassionate servant of this army of cripples. What surprises she received! What human misery she witnessed! What confessions she heard! She must write a last message to a distant mother from her dying son. There a strong man, now a cripple, implored her to tell his wife of his misfortune; again an ignorant, faithful creature begged for news of his family. Since the war began, nearly two years ago, no word of them had reached him. To all these little duties she added the care of their injured bodies, the dressing of wounds, the feeding of the helpless.

To her, who so short a time ago lived in lonely luxury, to whom the world and life were as a closed book; to her, who last year was satisfied with her dogs and chickens, her cats and pigeons, who looked with a half-scornful, half-indignant commiseration on the vibrant life around her, had come a great illumination! From these big children, the rough "poilus," soldiers she nursed so tenderly, she learned instinctively! They opened their hearts to her, they showed her their anguish and suffering! They called her "La Petite MÈre," turning to her in all hours for consolation and help. So when the "Demoiselle" went home after 12 hours' work for these wounded ones, her heart was filled with a great rejoicing; a warmth and satisfaction such as she had never known stole through her weary body; aching feet were forgotten, and to God she sent up a prayer of thankfulness that she had been allowed "to serve."

It was a lovely June evening. The night breeze, fragrant with new-mown hay and the perfume of sleeping field-flowers, stole through the open window, fluttering the "Veilleuse" as it cast its feeble light and shadow over the still form lying in the white sheet, so soon to become its shroud. The old "Demoiselle" sat there in pious thought, her eyes fixed on the boy she had nursed so many months, now so near to death; the boy whose soul had been washed clean by the Holy Sacrament and whose body was so soon to disappear from the world of men. Poor fellow, so far from all who loved him, his white features showed pinched and thin in the light of the crescent moon, looking over the black masses of trees into the desolate white room. From time to time his stiffening lips murmured "mother." He turned his head feebly from side to side seeking her, who, in a far-away province, knew nothing of her son's agony. The hours dragged on, the young moon disappeared behind the trees, the moribund moaned gently from time to time. A cooler breeze, fore-runner of morning freshness, swept through the wood. The "Demoiselle" still kept her vigil, changing her patient's pillow, holding a cup of water to his lips. Suddenly he gave an agonizing cry: "My mother! My mother! Where art thou? I cannot see! It is growing dark! Hold me, my mother, hold me!"

Then to the old maid came her great moment. Taking the poor, trembling form in her arms, she pillowed the rolling head on her bosom and pressing her lips to the dying boy's forehead she whispered: "I am here, my son! Do not fear. I, your mother, hold you. You are safe in my arms, my little one. Rest in peace."

The sun rose in glorious June splendor; the birds were singing their morning matins; the dewy flowers cast forth a ravishing fragrance—only in the sickroom was there silence, but also a holy peace, for the old maid—she who had never lied, who had scorned and reproved those who did so—had lied eagerly to comfort the passing spirit of a boy.

Dinard, June, 1915.

To you, in God's country, safe and sound, far removed from the conditions existing over here, a few notes of our daily existence may not come amiss.

First, let me quote the lines found on a dead boy in Champagne, his "Feuille de route" (diary), which shows eloquently how the little "piou-piou" feels these sorrowful days of 1914.

FEUILLE DE ROUTE

Diary of Albert Ledrean, volunteer for France in the war of 1914. Aged 18 years. In the 10th Regiment of Infantry. Fell on the field of honor, October 17th, 1914, in Champagne. (This diary was found on his body and sent home to his mother.):

"Auxonne, Cotes d' Or, September 15th, 1914—At last this long-wished-for moment has arrived. The great clock on the facade in our barracks marks 12:45, it is the hour for our departure; the clear notes of the bugles announce our colonel's approach; he appears, his fine horse curvetting and prancing, and our battalion stands rigidly at attention as he passes us on review. He draws his sword and gives orders to advance. The regimental music shrills loudly, our troopers with quick steps and alert bearing, start for the battlefields, which we have so long desired to see.

"We have decorated our rifles with huge bunches of flowers. On our route the people have strewn autumn leaves. More than one woman weeps as we go by, for our passing recalls so vividly to them, those poor women, their husbands, or brothers, or sons, who are fighting out yonder in the defense of the sacred soil of France. At the railway station a large crowd awaits, hands are shaken, adieux are made to those comrades who remain. We climb into the waiting train. Our colonel calls us to the windows and stirs our souls with a speech of patriotic feeling. He gives the accolade to our commander, and through him, to us all. The train starts, as the strains of the Marseillaise float in the air. From all our throats burst the cry, "Vive la France!" The regiment, massed near the station, salutes us, the bayonets glisten in the pale autumn sun and the drums and bugles sound gaily. We lean far out of the windows waving our kepis joyously to the crowd. The train moves faster and faster to our unknown destination. Who knows where? But what does it matter? It is for our country.

"Wednesday, September 28th—We were marched today to Dugny, by Verdun. Our adjutant ordered us to descend from our train at 8 a.m., and with enthusiasm we stepped through the clear morning air towards our destination. In traversing the village we met large Parisian autobuses heavily ladened with meat for the ravitallement of our troops; it was droll indeed to see the great vehicles with signs "Trocadero, Odeon, Porte Maillot, Louvre, Versailles, etc., in big letters here in the silence of the Champagne plains, so far from the crowded Paris streets, where before the war, they carried their human freight.

"We find the bridges destroyed everywhere, so to cross the streams we have much ado, the little makeshifts being very shaky and uncertain. We see many things of interest in our march. A captive balloon balancing in the blue air above a hill at the entrance of the village of Rangiere. We perceive the piteous results of the marmites of William, the Kaiser, vast holes of great circumference everywhere. Even as we arrived we heard the noise of two huge marmites which burst 500 metres from us. We saw a great black smoke, and dirt and earth springing into the air. Then our great cannons answered, our 75s joined the party, five minutes of cannonade and we no longer heard the shells of William.

"We were then allowed a short rest after our fifteen-mile walk, before descending to the village, where we are now resting in a barn with some Chasseurs d'Afrique. They are good comrades, these Chasseurs, we make friends at once, and have much to say, each recounting his thoughts and ideas of this war.

"Thursday, September 29th—At 7 a. m., we left Rangiere to find our regiment. We met a Taube flying above our heads. Our batteries fired on it, we deploying to offer less of a target. Later it flew towards the German lines, and my company reached a little wood where we spent the night. The shells whistled over our heads all the time; it is not gay, that noise.

"Friday, September 30th—Our Battalion has 24 hours' rest. The shells and shrapnels from Germany shriek all day and all night. I asked if these were the big ones. A man laughed and said "No, mon ami, ce sont les enfants." (No, my friend, these are the baby ones.) It never stops, this cannonade and shooting.

"Wednesday, October 4th—We are since four days in the front line, in the trenches, like foxes in their holes. The French and German shells never stop howling over our heads. On all sides, noise! noise! noise!

"Friday, October 6th—We are of the reserve; we leave our trenches to rest back yonder. On the way I saw the graves of two French soldiers, two crosses of wood at their heads. Ah, how obscure, but how noble, these graves of two sons of France, fallen on the field of honor.

"Monday, October 9th—We are back in the trenches. A funny thing has happened. Our sergeant hung his flannel shirt on the parapet of the trench to dry. A German shell burst at 50 metres. He ran in terror to save his shirt. 'Ah!' he cried, 'that would be too much, the dirty Germans, after they have destroyed the Cathedral of Reims, they want to burn my only flannel shirt.'

"Tuesday, October 10th—Went to the trench at 6 o'clock. At 7 o'clock our batteries commenced their fire. Our '75' swept the earth for 80 metres in front of us, the enemies' cannonading ceased. Our '75' redoubled in speed; we could hear the boches howling with pain. Then the German marmites recommenced. We assisted at an artillery duel which lasted till noon. The rest of the day and night was quiet.

"Wednesday, October 11th—We left this morning at 6 a. m., for an unknown destination. At the entrance of the wood we ate our 'Soupe' and then started on our route. Adieu! woods of the Woevre, we have not been too unhappy in thy valleys and on thy hillsides, although for a month I have not undressed. In the trenches we had little straw and no warmth, rain and cold were our constant companions, but we shall still regret thee, for we may find much worse further on."

So he did... He found his death.

Extracts from a letter written to his family by a sublieutenant from the battlefield of Champagne, October 23rd, 1915:

"At 9 o'clock we were all assembled on the first line. Orders passed from mouth to mouth. Bayonets are fixed to our rifles, each looking to his equipment, paying attention to the last detail. Nothing must be lacking on this momentous day, longingly awaited since many months. We all shake hands, some even embrace, wishing each other good luck; some with eyes brilliant with impatience, await the longed-for signal; others, calmer perhaps, although equally eager, polish their muskets with their handkerchiefs. It is raining heavily and mud is everywhere, but all our spirits are high. 9:15—The hour has come! The artillery increases the range of its shells. The first wave of men hurl themselves out of the trenches. What a magnificent moment. A rain of shells falls round, blowing to atoms some of the first line of soldiers. All along our immense front the infantry springs from the trenches, the bands playing shrilly the 'Marseillaise.' The bugle and the drums sound the charge. A roar of voices answer. With fixed bayonets we rush towards the German trenches, while their mitrailleuses mow us down. Our way is strewn already with corpses and wounded. Blood lies in pools or soaks in streams into the broken soil. From time to time the survivors fling themselves on the ground to escape the gale of shells. Notwithstanding this hell-fire, or the sharpshooters, we press through the woods. The cannons! The cannons! We must save them!

"All of us understand that this is a great day of battle for us French. We must win. Without hesitation, we must sacrifice our life and blood. We must fight to our last breath."

Here are quoted some reports made by the commanders of regiments and brigades. Words coming often from humble mouths, but inspired by the highest patriotism: A Colonial infantryman wounded in the foot in the beginning of the action limped to a "Poste de Secours" and said, "Here, quick, put on a strong bandage, I have only killed one so far. I am wild to get back." He was last seen climbing frantically up the slopes of "la Main de Massiges."

A captain, his face streaming with blood from a ghastly wound, refused to retire. "Today one pays no attention to little wounds, it is only death that will stop me now!"

A boyish lieutenant, as the first wave of men swept forward, shouted to his command: "Allons, Forward! Heads up, eyes straight. Fight! Fight!! Fight!!! Today we are going to enjoy ourselves. We are going to protect the sacred soil of France." He fell five minutes later.

A colonel of Colonial infantry, nick-named the bravest of the "Poilus," although severely wounded in the head, pushed forward to climb the "Entonnoir" of the crater. As he fell he shouted: "Onward! Onward, my brave lads. I would lead but I have lost too much blood. You are heroes all. En avant mes enfants!" ("Forward, my children, for France!")

Let me note a few words of personal experience: It was a gray cold day in early November. The little ferry-boat which runs between St. Malo and Dinard tossed heavily in the yellow-green waves rolling in from the channel. The decks were awash with spume and water, the sharp north wind whistled around our ears. I huddled down in the corner behind the pilothouse. Nothing but necessity would have driven me forth on such a day, but when one hears of 130 wounded arriving the day before in a remote convent hospital, one puts personal comfort aside and goes forth. The wind was piercing and brutal, even my fur coat was a poor protection against this bitter assailant from the north. Miserable and shivering I crouched behind the weak shelter, sincerely wishing I had never come.

Suddenly a cheerful voice wished me "Bon Jour."

A Zouave, baggy trousers, fez, clear bronze complexion, aquiline features, flashing eye, stood before me.

"Madame will permit that I seat myself on her bench?" he said.

"But certainly," I replied, looking with interest at this injured youth from afar. "Whence came you, mon petit?" ("my little one") I said, "you do not look any too strong to stand this winter gale."

"Quite true, Madame," he replied, "but we Zouaves are accustomed to the cold and storm."

"But surely you came from a warm country, mon soldat? The Zouaves are from Africa are they not?"

"True, I am from Tunis," he replied.

"On such a day you must long for your country?" I asked.

"Helas, oui. The orange trees are forever in bloom there, the heliotrope and hibiscus blossom all winter. The rose-scent hangs heavy on the air, there in my home! Even now I think of the deep blue sky, the long dusty road leading out into the desert; again I see the palms, the cacti; that is, if I close my eyes. Sometimes when it is dark and cold, and one is sad in the trenches, I cannot help wondering if ever again I shall sit beneath the awnings of the Cafe de France, or shall see the dusky women, in linen, walking to the fountain, or shall smell the dry heavy dust, or shall sit tranquilly in the blazing sun of 'La Tunisie.' Ah, oui, Madame, all that is many miles away from this cold, gray land of yours.

"But at the front that was another story. See, I have been wounded twice, and am here convalescing. All I dream of is to go back to the trenches. Ours is at Neuport. Only 1 metre (13 feet) separates us from the 'boches.' they call to us often from their side (they speak good French, too) ordering us to surrender for they are bound to win, and we are only losing time. We answer, too. We give them something to think about."

"But what were you before the war, soldier?" I asked.

"An antiquaire, Madame. I sold Persian carpets, brass lamps, leather goods to the tourists who came to my beautiful Tunisie."

"What will you do afterwards, my soldier?"

"That is as God wills, madame. Who knows? Can I even know where I shall be a week hence? All I want now is to get back to my regiment. To the front." With a military salute he left me.

At the hospital they were very busy. About 180 had just arrived from the great battle in Champagne; almost all wounded in the legs, many with only one to limp on.

"How comes it," I asked, "that you are all injured in the legs?"

"That is simple," answered a cheery looking fellow, "the boches just turned the mitrailleuses on us, like a man playing a hose on the lawn, but low down you see, so it caught us in the knees mostly. However, we have hands and arms still—a man can do a lot with them, even if he must have false legs or use crutches."

One pale, emaciated fellow said: "Madame, would you help me to the window to look at the sea. I have never seen it, and since, in July, I was wounded with 34 eclats d'obus (34 shell wounds) they have promised me, I should come to that great wonder, the sea!"

As I put my arm under his skeleton one, felt how thin and bony it was, looked at his poor pale young face and tried to realize what life in the future held for this battered young creature, my soul felt sick within me at all this useless waste and destruction. He did not complain, this little soldier. He only wanted to look on the cold northern ocean, which he had never before seen. The future was for him perhaps as gray, as cheerless, as sad, but, however despairing his thoughts may have been, he did not speak them. He did not whimper. Once for all he had given his all for France, and now in his feebleness he counted on kind souls to help him. Hundreds, nay thousands like him exist today, all over this sad old continent of Europe, vigorous young men now condemned forever to the dull and painful existence of a cripple. One hears on all sides of the courage and self-sacrifice of both the French and English Roman Catholic priests, how they cheer and encourage the men, bringing peace to the dying, nursing the wounded, holding services within the firing line, showing by example the highest patriotism.

An officer belonging to Nantes, in a letter to his wife on September 20th, describes a moving ceremony he had attended that morning:

"At 8 o'clock I heard a Mass said by the chaplain of the —th Territorials, a plank had been nailed up between two trees, and behind had been placed some leafy branches the best that our men could do under the circumstances. The chaplain began by addressing us a few words in which he told us that God would make allowance whilst work was being done for France; that he could not hear all our confessions, and that we should, therefore, make an act of contrition and a firm purpose of confessing our faults as soon as possible.

"All the 300 of us then signed that we wished to be included in the general absolution, which he gave us. After he exhorted all to receive the Holy Communion, which he would give us as he passed along the trenches. He then began the Mass, which was served by a lieutenant. Shells were bursting over-head as the Mass continued and during his short address after the Gospel. Never had I heard more fervent singing. At the Communion half of our number went up to the altar to receive, some with tears in their eyes, what was to many their Viaticum. The ceremony will be to me an unforgetable memory and a sweet consolation."

Let me quote a notice from the Tablet of October 30th, about an English priest. The following account of the devotion to duty shown during the fighting hound Hill 70, by Father John Gwynn, S. J., who died of wounds received in a dug-out, is given in a letter from an Irish Guardsman:

"Father Gwynn was known among the boys as 'the brave little priest.' Early in the war he was seriously wounded but refused to return to England. During the terrible fighting recently, Father Gwynn was again at his post. I saw him just before he died. Shrapnel and bullets were being showered upon us in all directions. Hundreds of our lads dropped. Father Gwynn was undismayed, he seemed to be all over the place trying to give the last sacrament to the dying. Once I thought he was buried alive, for a shell exploded within a few yards of where he was, and the next moment I saw nothing but a great heap of earth. The plight of the wounded concealed beneath was harrowing. Out of the ground came cries, 'Father! Father! Father!' from those who were in their death agonies.

"Then, as if by a miracle, Father Gwynn was seen to fight his way through the earth. He must have been severely wounded, but he went on blessing the wounded and hearing their confessions. The last I saw of him he was kneeling by the side of a German soldier. It was a scene to make you cry. The shells continued to explode about the wounded, but they could not stop a little English priest from doing his duty, even to a dying German."

One more item to add to these vignettes of our soldiers. I have told you of the volunteer, the lieutenant, the zouave and the priests. Now of a soldier (by profession) of the Colonial infantry. He had served nine years, having received two medals for the Moroccan campaign.

Last October, the 30th, a very dangerous reconnaissance was necessary before a certain action in the Argonne. The colonel called for volunteers, Petit immediately volunteered. He was given ten men, warned of the desperate nature of his work, and wished God-speed. The Germans were supposed to be intrenched behind a small wood over the crest of a hill There was a long slope to climb, a road to cross, another abrupt ascent to the wood.

It was brilliant moonlight. The men crept forward, seeking every shadow or bush or hollow to cover them.

They had climbed the first slope, crossed the road and were well up the second hill when they were suddenly swept by German rifle fire.

Petit glanced behind. All but two were lying bleeding and dead. He called to the other two to race back to their trenches, if possible, but he himself continued to creep through the straggling undergrowth up the crest. After some minutes, having discovered what he came to seek, the position and force of the enemy, he hastily retreated down the hill. Of the two survivors, one had already cleared the road and escaped. The other was lying, a moaning heap, on the white moonlit highway.

The Germans were firing at his flying figure, but a few steps more and he would have crossed the road—when he fell. Presently he picked himself up. One eye was gone, the blood streaming down his cheeks. But he determined, as he said, to revenge his comrades and himself. Staggering to the road he, with great difficulty, dragged his wounded companion off the road and to the shelter of some bushes. Fortunately, at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon, and they were able to lie hidden for a while. Then, with many struggles, he succeeded in getting his one remaining companion on his shoulders, and dragged himself back to the French lines. His information was of importance, but he did not know of it, for he lost consciousness immediately on delivering it.

The next day his company went into action and was annihilated. Of the 200 men, he and the man whose life he saved were the only survivors.

Months afterward I was able to welcome this gallant son of France back to Dinard. He is my maid's only brother, and the night he arrived we had a fitting supper awaiting him. My brother and I, and my cheery little French maid drank his health and listened to this story from his own lips. I am happy to say he is strong and well and active, and makes light of the wound.

"After all, Madame," he said, "a man can see all he wants with one eye, and if later I find some pretty girl to marry me, she may find that one eye will see only good in her, whereas, perhaps, as the years went by, I might have perceived, with two eyes, some faults."

One fine day this autumn I was invited to a little ceremony. The general commanding this region, surrounded by the pickets, the soldiers able to hobble about, the Red Cross nurses, and some of Petit's personal friends. It was to decorate him for conspicuous bravery under fire. The bugle shrilled loudly, an adjutant read the official announcement, the general stepped up and pinned on Petit's breast the MÉdaillÉ Militaire and the Croix de Guerre. Thus France recognizes and rewards her valiant soldiers.

October, 1915.