ence, that in his time one could be an eyewitness in comparative
safety at the distance where I stood, for the guns of those days did not
shoot far. But I saw fine things in that great plain beneath our
heights; a hundred thousand fires of bursting shells. And the
_chasseurs_ climbing, climbing.

_Sunday, March 28_ (2nd letter).

DEAR MOTHER,--Radiant weather rose this morning. I have been a long way
over our sector, and now the bombardment begins again, and grows.

And still I turn my thoughts to hope. Whatever happens, I pray for
wisdom for you and for me.

Dearest, I feel at times how easy it would be to turn again to those
pursuits that were once the charm and the interest of my life. At times
I catch myself, in this lovely spring, so bent upon painting that I
could mourn because I paint no more. But I compel myself to master all
the resources of my will and to keep them to the difficult straits of
this life.

_April 1._

A sun that lays bare the lovely youth of the spring. The stream of the
Meuse runs through this rich and comely village, which the echoes of the
cannonade reach only as a dull thud, their meaning lost.

We have had to change again, as the reinforcements are arriving in such
numbers that our places are wanted; and it is always our regiment that
has to turn out.

But to-day all is freshness and light. The great rich plain that is
edged by the Meuse uplands has its distance all invested in the
tenderest silver tones.

I am pleased with Gabrielle's letter; it shows me what things will be
laid upon the heart of France when these events are at an end. A
touching letter from Pierre, cured at last of his terrible wound. A
splendid letter from Grandmother. How she longs for our meeting again! I
cannot speak of it.

* * * * *

I finish this letter by the waterside, recalling with delight the joys I
used to have in painting. Before me are the sparkling rays of spring.

_April 3_ (post-card).

Only a word from the second line. We are in the spring woods. Sun and
rain at play in the sky. Courage through all.

_April 3_ (2nd letter).

I wish I had written you better letters in these days, every minute of
which has been sweet to me, even when we were in the front line. But I
confess that I was satisfied just to let myself live in the beauty of
the days, serene days in spite of the clamours of war. We know nothing
of what is to happen. But there is more mov