towards effacing every trace of what had seemed
like a hideous nightmare. Even the Eastern Railway, which had been
closed on account of the destruction of some seven or eight bridges
over the Marne, broke all records by repairing or replacing them in
eleven days' time. And while this had no direct bearing upon our
situation, the moral effect of even _hearing_ the train-loads of men
and munitions passing through our region, was certainly surprising.

Little by little things began to assume their normal aspect. Not that
they ever entirely regained it, for there was always the dull rumbling
of the cannon to remind us of bygone terrors, while the establishment
of several emergency hospitals in the vicinity lent an animation to the
highroads, formerly dotted with private cars, but now given over
entirely to ambulances and supply trucks.

As to the uniforms, they quickly became such accustomed sights that a
youthful civilian would have been the novelty.

Buoyed up by the success of our armies, every one expected an early
peace, and even the busiest of us began making projects for the fair
future. In the odd moments of relief from my somewhat onerous hospital
duties, my only pleasure and distraction was to build castles in the
air, and in the eternal Winter lights I laid many a plan for a little
boudoir next my bedroom, which I had long desired to see realised.

When news of H.'s safety reached me, my imagination knew no limits.

The convalescent patients from all branches of trade, who at different
times had filled the rooms of the chateau, converted into wards, had
been very deft at repairing everything in the way of furniture that the
Germans had defaced or neglected to appropriate. There were many
skilful carpenters and cabinet makers among them, and I saw visions of
employing them at their own trade, producing both occupation, which
they craved, and funds which they needed, but were too proud to accept
as gifts, and what a surprise that room would be for H.!

I even pushed my collector's mania so far as to pay a visit to an old
bourgeois who lived in a little city called La Ferte-Milon, quite a bit
north of us. The walls of his salon were ornamented with some charming
eighteenth century paper representing the ports of France, and in
excellent condition. I had long coveted it for my boudoir, and in days
before the war had often dickered with him as to price. I now feared
lest it should have been destroyed or