The third week in July found a very merry gathering at the Chateau de Villiers. (Villiers is our summer home situated near Marne River, sixty miles or an hour by train to Paris.) Nothing, I think, could have been farther from thoughts than the idea of war. Our May Wilson Preston, the artist; Mrs. Chase, the editor of a well-known woman's magazine; Hugues Delorme, the French artist; and numerous other guests, discussed the theatre and the "Caillaux case" from every conceivable point of view, and

August first. The tocsin ceased, but the drum rolled on. In a moment we had recovered from the first shock, and all went out to the highroad to hear the declaration. To H. and me it was already a thing of the past, but we wanted to see how the peasants would take it. At Villiers as at Charly, it was the garde champetre who was charged with this solemn mission, and the old man made a most pathetic figure as he stood there with his drumsticks in his hand, his spectacles pushed back, and the perspi

Nothing further happened that afternoon. Madame Guix's course went on as usual, with perhaps a little more animation in the conversation, and much speculation as to when and where those who had stopped at the chateau had been wounded. No one really knew. To tell the truth, though later Madame Guix and I had asked them, the soldiers themselves had but a very indistinct idea of time and date or whereabouts. That night I was awakened by the low rumbling of heavy carts on the road in front of the ch

In a bound I was down stairs and had opened the front door. "Is H. wounded?" I gasped. "No, Madame." I breathed again. "Where was he when you saw him?" "On the road between Villers-Cotterets and La Ferte Milon." "What's your message?" The boy put his hand to his breast pocket and drew forth a slip of paper. The full moon shining on the white facade of the chateau threw such a brilliant reflection that I recognized a sheet from a sketch book, and could distinguish the following words scribbled in

We had gone about two miles when the sight of my greyhounds tied behind the farm cart made me think of my little Boston bull. "Where's Betsy?" I asked of those perched on the hay. Julie, Nini and Yvonne grew white. It took little time to discover that no one had seen her that morning. It was evident she had been forgotten—left to die tied to the brass rail inside an abandoned bakery, for it was there I had fastened her on arriving the night before. Pedaling ahead till I reached Leon who led the

It was an exciting trip, that race for life and death—for every moment I knew my wounded boy was growing weaker, and every convulsive kick meant the disappearance of so much life blood. During the numerous adventures which befell us between the time we left Jouy-le-Chatel and our encountering the motor, my hypodermic needle had received such violent treatment that it refused service. So when we turned into Mormont at top speed, I was obliged to ask my driver to slow down and inquire for a doctor

I think it was the stench from within that first roused me from my grief and made me realize that this was war and no time for tears. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that at least I had a roof to cover me, but this was poor consolation. Pulling myself together, I started across the lawn towards the village in search of aid, for a second glance told me that it was useless even to think of entering the house, so great was the filth and disorder. Slowly I pushed onward, my head bent, my