Although she held extreme views and had suffered for them, I found her far less bitter in her statements about the enemy than the sympathisers who gave sympathy as a sole contribution to the movement. She spoke of the Crown Forces in a professional manner as part of the obstacles to be got out of the way. She would have shown them no mercy; but she bore them no more rancour than was necessary. She was used to dealing with them, knew all the tricks of the trade, and made use of her advantages. This same Mrs. Fitzgerald, I came to find out, mother of three children, woman of so many duties that she went at a jog-trot in the streets, this Mrs. Fitzgerald was a most romantic person. Her first hero had been Padraig Pierce, a leader of the 1916 Rising, and she had called one of her boys after him. The man to fill his place was Michael Collins, Mick as she called him, the Republican Minister of Finance, who used to be spoken of as “a certain minister,” the phrase whispered from person to person, as if his name spoken aloud would blast the lips that uttered it. She spoke quite simply of being battered from pillar to post, of having her household gods damaged, of doing without them, of the frequent difficulty of getting a roof over her head, yet I believe she thought wistfully now and then of the fleshpots she had given up for the Republic. She reminded me of those women who have been drudges for the sake of their children, and who point fiercely at what they have produced when some scented, jewelled creature passes by. I have spoken of her at length, because she represented a type of Irish woman whose sincerity and generosity could not be denied. Seldom a day went by without sound of explosion near or far, seldom a night went through without shooting, it might be an intermittent shot or two or a sudden volley breaking out wildly on the quiet, followed by desultory shooting, growing fainter as the exchange of shots passed down distant streets. It was too early yet for the weather to be charitable, for days to lengthen appreciably or nights to shorten; but one had the fancy that the sun was on the way back from happier lands, and when it returned peace might come with it, that honourable peace without which neither side would stay a hand, that honourable peace which seemed so impossible to conceive and to bring about. It was a case of wish being father to the thought, for matters were continuing to go from bad to worse. The Republican Volunteers appeared to be adopting a bolder policy, and some of the skirmishes which took place deserved the name. From the private citizen’s point of view, the situation had become a great deal worse. Volunteers had taken to ambushing the military lorries in the streets, and this method of campaign was the last drop in the cup of woe of the peace-loving person.