We dashed into the train at Revigny during the hail-storm, an infernal kind that didn’t cool the air, and arrived at Châlons at six o’clock. No cabs, at least none for us, so we begged two Quaker women with the red-and-white star in the little black triangle on their sleeves, who were getting into the only visible conveyance, to take our luggage and deposit it for us at the Hôtel de la Haute Mère Dieu, whose name so appealed to me. We paid our share of the cab, and all and everything departed, we on foot. Châlons seems quite without character as one passes through the streets, though I caught sight of several old churches and, alone, would have lingered on the busy bridge that spans the Marne. We got to the Hôtel de la Haute Mère Dieu and interviewed the female keeper of that special paradise, who said she had nothing for us, had received no telephone message from the _préfet_ at Bar-le-Duc or any other _préfet_ from any other place. Then Mrs. C. P.—the Verdun day and the Bar-le-Duc nights having somewhat stretched our nerves—began to get annoyed; the desk-lady finally asked us, did we belong to the Westinghouse Commission, which we didn’t. We then betook ourselves to the streets. Nothing at the Hôtel d’Angleterre, nothing at the Hôtel-Restaurant du Renard. We finally asked a large, beady-eyed, determined-looking female, standing at a door, if she had accommodations or knew of any one who had. She proved to be the _sage-femme_ of the quarter and eyed us askance. Just then appeared a very _comme il faut_, pretty young woman with an expression at once so charming and so modest that we did not hesitate to accost her and tell her of our plight—that it looked as if we should be passing the night _à la belle étoile_ if some one didn’t do something for us. She hesitated, looked at us, hesitated again. Smashed down on her head at a smart angle was the identical hat that Mrs. C. P. was wearing, blue with a twisting of gray, from Reboux. I think that hat crystallized things, for she ended by saying, sweetly: “I have a room that I sometimes offer to friends; only,” she added, “there is a horrible stairway leading to it.”