For three days I have been resting here under the watchful care of Desprès, who bestows as much attention on his patients as would a mother. It puzzles me exceedingly how this excellent and kind-hearted fellow manages to get through his various duties. In the intervals of sweeping out the room, I learn that his wife lives in the neighbourhood of Montdidier, right in the heart of a bombarded district. The family is scattered; the home must be in ruins. He utters not a word of complaint, but devotes himself whole-heartedly to his task of soothing and consoling us. Finally I receive news of my friends: a long letter from Reymond, brought by one of my wounded companions. He writes as follows-- "Well, you are an old humbug, giving us the slip in this fashion! Still, you're a lucky fellow, though now you must take good care of yourself. Perron informed us that you were at Septmonts. We have been ordered to take a rest, but our present surroundings are nothing to boast of. I myself am terribly lame, and my feet bleed a great deal. Verrier can scarcely breathe; his coughing is painful to listen to. Maxence, under an attack of acute dysentery, has that pretty green complexion you remember seeing when we were down at Fontenoy; Varlet's knee is as big as a child's head; Jacquard is laid up with bronchitis. We take up all the doctor's time, when he makes his rounds. The regiment held its ground long enough to enable reinforcements to arrive. The whole of our squadron was there. Belin is living. He came out without a scratch, though he fought like a madman. I'll see you again before long, old fellow...." As I lie in my bed I read the letter again and again. This evening, I am able to get up and sit on the doorstep. The rain has stopped. How well I appreciate the peace and quiet of this place as I listen to the roar of the cannon and the crack of the rifles in the distance. _Printed in Great Britain by_ UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON