guess I was too late. If I'd known
about this war, I'd have wished it sooner. I'm a broken woman, Lizzie,"
she finished.

She put on her hat wrong side before, but I had not the heart to tell
her, and went away.

However, late that evening she called me up, and her voice was not the
voice of a broken creature.

"I thought you might like to come over, Lizzie," she said. "That woman
below has told the janitor she is going to pour ammonia water down on my
tomato plants tonight, and I am making a few small preparations."

SALVAGE

I

After Charlie Sands had gone to a training camp in Ohio there was a
great change in Tish. She seemed for the first time to regret that she
was a woman, and there were times when that wonderful poise and dignity
that had always distinguished her, even under the most trying
circumstances, almost deserted her. She wrote, I remember, a number of
letters to the President, offering to go into the Secret Service, and
sending a photograph of the bandits she had caught in Glacier Park. But
she only received a letter from Mr. Tumulty in reply, commencing "May I
not thank you," but saying that the Intelligence Department had recently
been increased by practically the entire population of the country, and
suggesting that she could best use her energies for the national welfare
by working for the return of the Democratic Party in 1920.

However, as Tish is a Republican she was not interested in this, and for
a time she worked valiantly for the Red Cross and spent her evenings
learning the national anthem. But she recited it, since, as the
well-known writer, Mr. Irvin Cobb, has observed, it can only be properly
sung by a boy whose voice is changing. It was evident, however, that she
was increasingly restive, and as I look back I wonder that we did not
realize that there was danger in her very repression.

As Aggie has said, Tish is volcanic in her temperament; she remains
inactive for certain preparatory periods, but when she overflows she
does so thoroughly.

The most ominous sign was when, in July of 1917, she stopped knitting
and took up French.

Only the other day, while house cleaning, she came across the aeroplane
photograph of the French village of V----, where our extraordinary
experience befell us, and she turned on us both with that satiric yet
kindly gaze which we both knew so well.

"If you two idiots had had your way," she observed, "I should have been
knitting so many so