Mrs. Moulton, like many other ladies, had volunteered her services during the war, and had interested herself in this worthy cause; and as she is about to leave for Dinard one of these days, she wanted me to take up her work in the hospital of the Boulevard la Tour-Maubourg. She knows all the directors and nurses and introduced me to them. The director asked me if I would like to help in the _section des étrangers_. I replied that I would do anything they wished, hoping inwardly that I might develop a talent for nursing, which, until now, had lain dormant. It was not with a light heart I entered the ward to which I was aligned, and saw the long rows of beds filled with sick and wounded. My first patient was a very young German (he did not look more than twenty). He had been shot through the eyes, and was so bandaged that I could hardly see anything but his mouth. Poor little fellow! He was very blond, with a nicely shaped head and a fine, delicate mouth. His lips trembled when I laid my hand on his white and thin hand, lying listlessly on the coverlid. I asked him if I could do anything for him. He answered me by asking if I could speak German. On my saying that I could, he said he would like to have me write to his mother. I asked the director if it was allowed for me to communicate with his family. He answered that there would be no objection if the contents of the letter were understood by me. Therefore, armed with pencil and paper, I returned to my invalid's bedside, who, on hearing me, whispered: "I thought you had gone and would not come back." "You don't think I would be so unkind as that?" I answered. I felt that we were already friends. I sat down, saying that I was ready to write if he would dictate. His lips moved; but I could not hear, and was obliged to put my ear quite close to his poor bandaged face to hear the words, _Meine liebe Mutter_. He went on dictating, and I writing as well as I could, until there came a pause. I waited, and then said, "Und?" He stammered something which I made out to be, "It hurts me to cry," whereupon I cried, the tears rolling fast down my cheeks. Fortunately he did not see me! This is my first trial, and I have already broken down! I told him I would finish the letter and send it to his mother, "Frau Wanda Schultz, Biebrich am Rhein," which I did, adding a little postscript that I was looking after her son, and would take the best care of him. I hope she got the letter. The doctor advised the patient to sleep, so I left him and went to another bed, which they indicated. This was an American, a newspaper reporter from Camden, New Jersey. He had joined Faidherbe's army in February, and had been wounded in the leg. He was glad to talk English. "They do things mighty well over here", said he; "but I guess I'll have to have my leg cut off, all the same."