September 25, 1914. It's so long since I've written in this journal that I'm quite discouraged about it. Not a single entry have I made since that wonderful day over at Louis's when they found the document. Well, there hasn't been much to write about, and we've all felt lonely and blue and apprehensive (that's the only word I can think of to express it) ever since Louis sailed for France.

They did not get away quite as soon as they had expected. Changed conditions and sailing dates delayed them a week or more longer than the original plan. I think it was at least the twentieth of August before they left for New York and their steamer.

Oh, it is such a desolate place now, across the Green, since they went away,—all shut up and dark and lonely! But Monsieur has left the key with us, and asked us to go through it once in a while to see that everything was all right. In the spring he intends to have an architect come and restore the "long kitchen" to exactly its former appearance, and to put all the rest of the house in good shape. He says that, since Louis wishes it so much, he shall come back here whenever there is an opportunity, that is, whenever his duties will permit, and that he can live here as long as he likes. That is glorious news. We are all so happy about it, and Louis was just wild with joy.

But will he come back? That is the awful question. Aviation is dangerous enough, even here in a peaceful country. What earthly chance of life has one over there in the midst of this horrible war? It makes me shudder every time I think of it, and I don't dare think of it much. I have awful nightmares about it every night.

The Imp has taken to reading up everything she can find on the subject, and she insists on telling us hair-raising tales about the dangers and accidents that happen to military aviators. I asked her once if it didn't simply make her sick to think of such things in connection with Louis, but she only said:

"Oh, no! Louis's not going to have things like that happen to him. He's different!" I only wish I had her faith.

Louis's departure with the marquis was a nine-days' wonder here, of course. Everybody talked about it incessantly for a while, speculating at the greatest length on why in the world a French nobleman should do such an eccentric thing. But naturally, no one except we three girls ever guessed the truth, or ever will. For it was the marquis's wish that, even as things turned out, the truth about the dauphin should never be made public.

We have all gone back to school, and are plodding along in the same prosaic way. The only thing we're doing that really interests us is to knit an outfit for Louis—a sweater, a helmet, some wristlets, and socks. He said before he left that he'd probably need them, and we promised to make them as quickly as possible.

September 28. We had a letter from Louis to-day,—the first since he left. Of course it caused the wildest excitement. He said they had a safe voyage across, and he wasn't seasick a minute, though the marquis and old Mr. Meadows were very ill. Louis said that they went straight to Paris, and there the marquis used his influence and had him enlisted in the French Air Service. In a few days Louis was notified to report for duty at the HÔtel des Invalides. Here he went through his physical examination, passed it, and then was sent to Dijon to get his outfit, which is provided by the government. After going through all that, he was sent to Pau (we've looked up these places in the Atlas, and know exactly where they are!) to become a member of the flying-school.

Louis had been there only a week when he wrote this letter, but he says that, owing to the hard study he put in on Page Calvin's machine, he's almost perfect in the mechanical parts,—the engine and steering,—and instead of having to spend several weeks at that, he can soon begin the actual flying. Of course I don't understand all his technical talk, but one thing is easy to see—he's completely and absolutely happy. He says he'll write again when he's actually "been up," but that he has hardly a moment to himself during the day, and at night he's so tired that he almost falls asleep on the way to bed. The French course must be very strict and exacting.

November 22, 1914. I didn't suppose it would be so long before I'd write here again, but there's generally nothing much to write. Paradise Green has returned to its old, sleepy nonentity of a place since Louis went away. Only one thing has stirred the quiet surface of our family. Dave has been extremely morose and uneasy ever since Louis's departure, and yesterday he launched a thunderbolt in our midst by asking Father if he could go off to "the front" and enlist in the French army. Father was very quiet about it, but he refused absolutely. Then Dave broke down and blubbered like a baby. He said he wanted to do something to help in this beastly mess, and that he thought America was "rotten" not to get into it, too. But Father said:

"If America ever does get into it, Dave, you'll go with my full permission,—but not till then!" So Dave had to be content with that.

We heard from Louis to-day,—the most wonderful letter! Two weeks ago he finished his course in aviation and was ordered to duty at the front. So off he went (he wasn't allowed to tell us where the "front" was) and has been there ever since, scouting over the enemy's lines in a biplane with the chef pilote, to familiarize himself with conditions. He will soon be actively engaged with the enemy. It makes me sick and cold to think of it. Will we ever see Louis alive again, walking about Paradise Green in the old way? I have simply made up my mind that it is not possible,—that if it ever happens, it will be nothing short of a miracle.

On looking back in this journal, I find that I have kept it exactly one year. I have fulfilled my promise to Miss Cullingford, and I believe, if she could only read it, she'd find it a very interesting "supplement to history." But of course she never will read it. That would be breaking my promise to the marquis. I do not think I will write in it any more. The year is over, and Louis has gone—and may never come back any more.

April 10, 1917. To-day, in an old drawer of my desk, locked away and almost completely forgotten by me, I found this journal that I kept three long years ago. How long, how very long they seem now! I was sixteen then, and still in high school. I am nineteen—nearly twenty—now, and have been a year in college. At present I am home for the Easter vacation, back in little Paradise Green, and in rummaging through my desk I found this journal. The idea has come to me to add one more entry, because it will make the story complete.

When I last wrote here, I was positively certain that Louis would die, that he would be killed in some terrible battle or have some accident to his aËroplane. Nothing of the sort has occurred, marvelous as it may seem. Yes, the miracle has happened, and Louis, our same old Louis, is back in his home on Paradise Green! What is more, the Meadows, or Mettots, as I now call them, are back here with him, just as in the old days. It's too wonderful for words!

But the marquis is not here. He never will be here any more, for he died a year ago, leaving his title and what little remains of his estate to Louis. The greater part of it has been turned over to the French Government.

But Louis! Oh, that has been the wonderful part of the story! He has been known for two years as one of the most daring and successful members of the French Aviation Corps, with a record of captured enemy machines and successful engagements to be proud of. He has been decorated by the French Government and honored in a dozen ways, and has never been wounded or injured till just lately.

In an engagement at Eaucourt l'Abbaye last October, toward the finish of the great Somme battle, he was wounded in the side, but managed to land his machine safely. The wound was not serious in itself, but his old enemy, blood-poisoning, set in, and for a while it was nip-and-tuck whether he could recover. But Louis says his constitution is "sound American," and after a long siege he was pronounced out of danger and recovered. He has been compelled by his commanding officer, however, to take a long leave of absence, to recover complete health before he returns to the front.

So he came back to Paradise Green, to take up life, as he says, where he left it. During this Easter vacation we four have been rollicking around, just as we used to when we were children and hadn't a care on our minds. Carol is as grown-up as I am, and is attending college with me. The Imp is a tall, lanky creature now, nearly through high school, and at times can be quite as exasperating as ever. They say she's cut out for a brilliant future, but just at present her whole mind is concentrated on becoming a Red Cross nurse, so that she can go off to "the front" and get in the thick of it. Mother and Father won't stand for it, of course, but trust the Imp to get her way—somehow.

And that brings me to another thing. America has at last entered the war. We can scarcely believe it yet. Louis is jubilant, and Dave promptly claimed the promise that Father made him three years ago. Father has consented, as he said he would, but is feeling pretty grave about it. And the look in Mother's eyes is enough to keep Dave from effervescing too openly. I dare not think very far into the future, but for the immediate present we all are trying to be happy.

I had almost decided to destroy this journal, but something Louis told us has made me change my mind. He said that before Monsieur (I cannot get out of the habit of calling him that!) passed away, he told Louis that he had changed his mind about keeping secret any longer the story of Louis's descent. He said that he believed the dauphin would have been filled with pride at the wonderful attainments and service to France of the descendant of his own adopted son, and would glory in the world's knowledge of his connection with him. So Louis said that, although he wasn't ever going to say anything about it himself, he didn't specially care if the rest of us did. The matter seemed of little importance to him, anyhow. He said that probably no one would believe it, anyway, as there were too many stories already concerning the escape and claims of the "lost dauphin."

Probably they won't, and I wouldn't blame them, for it does seem well-nigh incredible. However that may be, I've changed my mind about this journal. I'm going to show it to Miss Cullingford. She and I have always been great friends, even after I left high school, and I want her to read for herself the whole history of this wonderful thing that happened on little, out-of-the-way Paradise Green.