w.

This afternoon I went all over the big French hospital where our men
are. The French nuns were charming, and it was all very nice. The
women's ward is full of women and girls _blessees_ by shells, some with
a leg off and fractured--all very cheerful.

One shell the other day killed thirty-one and wounded twenty-seven--all
Indians.

I am not to start work till to-morrow, as the wards are very light;
nearly all the officers up part of the day, so at 6 P.M. I went to the
Bishop of London's mission service in the theatre. A staff officer on
the steps told me to go to the left of the front row (where all the red
hats and gold hats sit), but I funked that and sat modestly in the last
row of officers. There were about a hundred officers there, and a huge
solid pack of men; no other woman at all. The Bishop, looking very white
and tired but very happy, took the service on the stage, where a Padre
was thumping the hymns on the harmonium (which shuts up into a sort of
matchbox). It was a voluntary service, and you know the nearer they are
to the firing line the more they go to church. It was extraordinarily
moving. The Padre read a sort of liturgy for the war taken from the
Russians, far finer than any of ours; we had printed papers, and the
response was "Lord, have mercy," or "Grant this, O Lord." It came each
time like bass clockwork.

Troops are just marching by in the dark. Hundreds passed the hospital
this afternoon. I must go to sleep.

The Bishop dashed in to see our sick officers here, and then motored
off to dine with the Quartermaster-General. He's had great services with
the cavalry and every other brigade.

_Easter Eve_, 10 P.M.--Have been on duty all day till 5 P.M. They are
nearly all "evacuated" in a few days, so you are always getting a fresh
lot in.

Another Army Sister turned up to-day in a motor from Poperinghe to take
the place of the two who were originally here, who have now gone.

At six this morning big guns were doing their Morning Hate very close to
us, but they have been quiet all day. Two days ago the village two and a
half miles south-east of us was shelled.

I found my own new billet this morning before going on duty; it is in a
very old little house over a shop in a street off the big Place. It is a
sort of attic, and I am not dead sure whether it is clean on top and
lively underneath, but time will show. The shop lady and her daughter
Maria Therese are full of zeal and kindness to