I shall not attempt to state how many times during the first two years these glad tidings thrilled our hearts, only to be contradicted, after long suspense, by some disastrous event, proving that little or no progress—such as we could then understand as progress—had been made by the Allied forces. During that period, when France and England were obliged to lose time (since the former was organizing what strength she had, and the latter forming an army), we did not comprehend how strongly the enemy was rooting himself in occupied territory. We thought that, since the Germans had been so wonderfully checked at the Marne, it was only a matter of short time before they would be wholly worsted and we liberated. In those days, consequently, no news seemed too good to be true, and we accepted all with delighted confidence. From our town residence close to the Bois, we could hear the constant thunder of cannon, and during days of happy anticipation it was music to our ears. Often we would stand listening to it, with a party of friends, exhilarated by the roar of some heavy gun that seemed to be hammering open the gates of our prison—seemed like a mighty voice crying, “We are coming, we are coming—have courage!” But when, time after time, good news proved false, that distant thunder became a torture to the nerves, and horrible to a mind capable of picturing, even dimly, the massacre and destruction it signified week after week, month after month. Often, during the night, it made the house tremble to its foundations, and set windows and ornaments rattling in such a manner that sleep was impossible. At others, the resounding earthquaking shocks gave place to a steady, terrific roar, like a constant rolling of heavy wagons over a stony road. This continued hour after hour through whole nights and days—the frightful “curtain-fire” eye-witnesses have so well described, whose ghastly thunder was in our ears when we fell asleep, and when we awoke, like the monotonous roar of an angry sea. Meanwhile, life in the capital continued to be harassed by local tragedies and insupportable restrictions. Among these tragedies were the murders of Miss Cavell and Captan Fryatt, the condemnation of well-known and loved citizens to death or long periods of _travaux forcés_, the seizure of some friend’s son, husband, mother, or sister, often on unproved suspicion, and, in other cases, because of brave effort to serve their unhappy land.