over her endless tapestry-work in the silence of the old manor, the world seemed trite indeed. Her home was so orderly, so clean, so proper, so remote from life. No muddy footprints on the wax floors, no child's toys forgotten in the corner, no cap or jacket thrown carelessly on disturbed furniture. Her apartments were sweet with lavender and roses, but tobacco smoke was a stranger to their antique propriety.

Now, suddenly, all these quiet ways, these time-honored habits were destroyed. War broke over France and she, with countless of her countrywomen, donned the white linen gown embroidered with that cross-of-red emblem of so many sacrifices and devotions. The hastily-installed hospital became her only thought; all her energy, care, and patience must be brought to the aid of the broken men as her tribute to the defenders of France.

In the long whitewashed hall, on whose blank walls the crucifix hung alone, stood the double row of beds, where lay these valiant fellows. Young boys of eighteen and twenty, arms and legs in plaster or bound in bloodstained bandages; forced, poor chaps, to the sight of such horrors on the battlefields as to remove forever their youthful joyance of life. Older men, bearded and bronzed, talked to her of their family life; of their wives and children; of the little humdrum everyday experiences, so unknown to her, so commonplace and vital to them. Gone for her the tranquil days of yester-year, her collection of laces, her bibelets, her books, her revues—all her souvenirs of years of sedate living and tranquil seclusion.

Only the maps of the battlefields interested her now; the long, hard duties of the Red Cross nurse were more entrancing than her most delightful journeys in Italy, or her summers in Switzerland. Many things she saw, heard, and was obliged to do, she was often shocked and horrified, but courage, patience and skill were daily demanded of her. A great endurance necessary for such arduous work, and her compassion ever inspired renewed effort. Life and death were there in frightful reality before her eyes, so to the round-shouldered, gray-headed woman these great facts became the motive power of her life. She became the willing, compassionate servant of this army of cripples. What surprises she received! What human misery she witnessed! What confessions she heard! She must write a last message to a distant mother from her dying son. There a strong man, now a cripple, implored her to tell his wife of his misfortune; again an ignorant, faithful creature begged for news of his family. Since the war began, nearly two years ago, no word of them had reached him. To all these little duties she added the care of their injured bodies, the dressing of wounds, the feeding of the helpless.

To her, who so short a time ago lived in lonely luxury, to whom the world and life were as a closed book; to her, who last year was satisfied with her dogs and chickens, her cats and pigeons, who looked with a half-scornful, half-indignant commiseration on the vibrant life around her, had come a great illumination! From these big children, the rough "poilus," soldiers she nursed so tenderly, she learned instinctively! They opened their hearts to her, they showed her their anguish and suffering! They called her "La Petite Mère," turning to her in all hours for consolation and help. So when the "Demoiselle" went home after 12 hours' work for these wounded ones, her heart was filled with a great rejoicing; a warmth and satisfaction such as she had never known stole through her weary body; aching feet were forgotten, and to God she sent up a prayer of thankfulness that she had been allowed "to serve."

It was a lovely June evening. The night breeze, fragrant with new-mown hay and the perfume of sleeping field-flowers, stole through the open window, fluttering the "Veilleuse" as it cast its feeble light and shadow over the still form lying in the white sheet, so soon to become its shroud. The old "Demoiselle" sat there in pious thought, her eyes fixed on the boy she had nursed so many months, now so near to death; the boy whose soul had been washed clean by the Holy Sacrament and whose body was so soon to disappear from the world of men. Poor fellow, so far from all who loved him, his white features showed pinched and thin in the light of the crescent moon, looking over the black masses of trees into the desolate white room. From time to time his stiffening lips murmured "mother." He turned his head feebly from side to side seeking her, who, in a far-away province, knew nothing of her son's agony. The hours dragged on, the young moon disappeared behind the trees, the moribund moaned gently from time to time. A cooler breeze, fore-runner of morning freshness, swept through the wood. The "Demoiselle" still kept her vigil, changing her patient's pillow, holding a cup of water to his lips. Suddenly he gave an agonizing cry: "My mother! My mother! Where art thou? I cannot see! It is growing dark! Hold me, my mother, hold me!"

Then to the old maid came her great moment. Taking the poor, trembling form in her arms, she pillowed the rolling head on her bosom and pressing her lips to the dying boy's forehead she whispered: "I am here, my son! Do not fear. I, your mother, hold you. You are safe in my arms, my little one. Rest in peace."

The sun rose in glorious June splendor; the birds were singing their morning matins; the dewy flowers cast forth a ravishing fragrance—only in the sickroom was there silence, but also a holy peace, for the old maid—she who had never lied, who had scorned and reproved those who did so—had lied eagerly to comfort the passing spirit of a boy.

Dinard, June, 1915.