Did these days really exist? Do you remember my landlady with the sweet, deprecating smile, her painful humility, her awe and worship of the temporal powers that ruled her destiny? How we distrusted it all, sure that it was a false foundation for life, and that freedom is the heritage of the human soul! Even then, we were both conscious of hidden fires—of smouldering hates. They were deferential to us; yet inwardly loathing, perhaps fearing us. They have not changed at all, Cornelia, the little river which watered German sentiment in that horrid mediæval place, has only broadened and widened into a vast and overwhelming sea. They were getting ready even then. I could see it in the jealous eyes of the women, their veiled and laboured politeness at the coffee parties had nothing convincing about it. It did not warmly enfold you like the gracious hospitality of kindred peoples. They were bidden to hate, and they knew how to do it, and could veil their fine accomplishment in the art. Oh, Cornelia, where am I now? The Food Expert has got out of bounds. Call her back, discipline her; make her toe the line. The outcome of that interesting morning is that we have a Communal Kitchen and it is going to be a tremendous success. Some doubts had to be dispelled. People have to be convinced that it is not a charity, bearing the brand of the soup kitchen, or the Penny Dinner scheme. We have tried to explain that it is merely co-ordinating the forces; co-operation on a large scale. We have gotten the cook, the machinery, the volunteers, and I think we are going to sleep more soundly "o’ nights" because of it. At least the children will be better fed. Some of them are getting to look so peaky, for milk has been very scarce all winter, and butter a thing of the past. We just simply daren’t sit down to think of the children. It must seem so strange and cruel to them. What have they to do with the quarrels of Emperors and Kings and Diplomatists? They are heirs of all the ages and have the right to live in peace and comfort, none daring to make them afraid. Sometimes I have a nightmare of the first indictment this young generation will bring up at the Day of Judgment—the children who have known naught but terror—the sons who have had to die before they lived—the widowed girls and the girls who never will taste the joy of wifehood or motherhood, but must go unmated to their graves. Almost it makes me long to be there lying sweetly and unconsciously beside the quiet dead. I have no letters from Himself. Where he is—whether alive or dead—how can I tell? I haven’t even the poor consolation of writing to him—because I have no address. There is no glory in war for women’s hearts, Cornelia. To-day I am neither proud nor glad, but only sorry to be a soldier’s wife. *XV* I have been reading over your last letter and find that my impassioned tirade about Food left many of your questions unanswered.