speaks French the most beautifully I ever heard, and says lovely things, and makes jokes too. When he says anything funny he lifts his feet aloft and twinkles them very fast and goes into perfect spasms. He talks so fast that often I don’t understand him, but I laugh just the same, and the more he laughs the more I do, because it strikes me so funny to be making such a hullabaloo when I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s about. He went up with me on the bridge for the moonlight the second night (Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short were laid out in a tableau barely vivant), and we talked French and a little German—he recited Schiller—and I told him I was going to France, and he said, “Belle a de bon cœur,” and we were bien amusés. He is French Consul at Montreal, and is going to see his two little sons at ——.

The next day the captain asked to “be presented to” me. He invited me to sit at his table, and oh, how I hated to refuse. All the interesting French people sit there, and Mrs. Craigee—that lovely-looking girl that we saw on the dock—and I could have practiced French so wonderfully. Besides, Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short nearly always eat on deck,—but of course I had to sit with them. I was very much flattered, however, although I needn’t have been, for there are so few girls on board.

There are thirty-six American Ambulance men, and some of them are dandies. About four in particular are most congenial, and we do everything together—shuffle-board, deck-walking, afternoon-teaing, card-playing, playing the piano, and generally exploring about the ship. I should like to describe every one, but I feel that this is getting boring as it is. The foreigners are delightful. Our French newspaper man took my picture for his paper the other day. He is exactly like a musical-comedy Frenchman—he raises his shoulders and says “la, la,” and wears checked trousers and patent leathers and gets so very excited—such gestures!

At luncheon the other day there was great excitement—a wireless for some one, and it was for me! From Robert and Harris and Johnny. Really, I was so pleased. We were nine hundred miles out, and it seemed almost like seeing them to have it come. I walked on air all afternoon. At dinner that night the steward came around again, saying, “Télégramme sans fil pour Mlle. Root,”—and there was a plate of salted almonds with the cards the Ambulance men had stuck in it, with all sorts of crazy messages written on them. I wirelessed back a poem as soon as I could gather my senses sufficiently, and a good time was had by all.

It is now Sunday and our last day. It is a glorious blue morning.

There is a good deal of talk of submarines and floating mines as we approach France. The lifeboats were swung out last night, our guns loaded, all the lights darkened, and everything was preparedness. We tried on the life-preservers before retiring, and the dust of ages that they bore made me sneeze frightfully. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to sleep on one’s passport! I have played the piano a good deal on the trip. The whole ship is singing “Liebes Freud.” This morning Mrs. Bigelow and I rose at 5.30, and saw a wonderful sunrise. We stood on the bridge together, and it was all gold and rose and purple. She is a peach,—Mrs. Bigelow. I can’t wait to land, although I love the ship. I had thought of crossing as just crossing; and not as such a wonderful time. I do appreciate it all so much, Father, and I will write very seriously when I get to Paris.