“perdu,” by a series of what I considered intelligent sounds, and, by Jove, the man—being a genius anyway—got the idea that some one had lost a black suitcase, and had the whole ship’s service in action before I could wink. Soon the suitcase appeared, and I had Miss Short’s undying gratitude, coupled with complete dependence for the rest of the trip.

This was the beginning of Miracle Number One—that is, my French was perfectly understood, and I understood nearly everything. Oh, the joy of having the many hours spent over Chardenal at Hawthorne School under the vigilant eye of Miss Bourlard or Mlle. Delpit at college—of having them not spent in vain! Why, one of the Ambulance men told me yesterday that when he first saw me he thought I was French! (Of course, he speaks execrably himself, and my red tam might assume any nationality.) I order meals, carry on all our traffic with the stewardess and deck steward, and interpret right and left.

All during dinner you could see that people were rather waiting for a shot off our bows, and every one’s expression was bien pressé. After dinner I took myself up on the bridge in my fur coat and stood alone watching the most beautiful moon-path that ever I saw. It was cold and clear with a fine breeze. “O Sole Mio” floated up gently from the steerage below. Helpful thoughts came to me, and suddenly Miracle Number Two happened. I felt perfectly sure that we were all right and that nothing was going to happen to the Espagne. I haven’t thought of Germans or submarines or anything since. I slept like a top that night.

Just as I was about to get into my berth, Mrs. Bigelow asked me if I knew where the life-preservers were. I hadn’t thought of them. Well, I wasn’t dressed, and I couldn’t go and ask the steward, so I said, “Go and find the steward, and say, 'Où sont les gilets de sauvetage?’” “I suppose,” said Mrs. Bigelow, “that 'gilets’ means 'preservers’?” “Well, not exactly,” said I; “'gilets’ means waistcoats, and 'sauvetage’ means salvation; literally, the waistcoats of salvation; quaint, isn’t it?” “Oh, very,” said she; “Oo song lays geelays dee softadge—I can say that easily.” “Alors, allez-vous en,” said I, and bowed her out of the stateroom. She marched erectly down the corridor, and I could hear her voice,—firm, but growing fainter and fainter,—“Where are the waistcoats of salvation—oo song lays geelays dee softadge—where are the waistcoats,” etc.,—for all the world like “Fling out the Banner,” or something of the kind. It would make a good hymn, I thought.

Back she came with a mute and suffering steward. He had understood her and pointed to the top of the wardrobe. He was not at all disturbed by my nightgown, and I gave mental thanks to May for having run the ribbons in—I feel freer in the French tongue when I am in négligé. So the evening ended with a pleasant chat about sauvetage and naufrage and the amenities of life.

The first morning was blue and clear, but oh! so rough. My head began to feel funny as I dressed, so I hurried into my sailor blouse and red tam and beat it for the deck. And here we have Miracle Number Three. I wasn’t a bit sick for one minute, and have felt better and fuller of pep than I have since I was at Bailey’s. I have been an obnoxious sight to most of the passengers because I have run, skipped, and jumped (figuratively) while they have rolled listless eyes at me. There were only about fifteen people in the dining-room that first luncheon, and I was the only woman. You should see this boat roll. Really, the Olympic or the Minneapolis would blush at such actions.

I hardly saw Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short the first two days, and so it was natural that I should get very chummy with the Frenchman whose chair was next to mine. He has long wiry mustaches that stick out at least five inches on each side. He is a widower, and very small. He