We came back even more slowly than we had gone up. It took ten minutes by my watch to cross the bridge at Chalifère. We jigged a bit and stopped; staggered a bit, and trembled, and stopped; crawled a bit, and whistled. I had a feeling that if anyone disobeyed the order pasted on every window, and leaned out, we should topple over into the stream. Still, no one seemed to mind. With the curtains drawn, everyone tried to read, by the dim light, a newspaper. It is remarkable how even ordinary people face danger if a panic can be prevented. The really great person is the one who even in a panic does not lose his head, and the next best thing to not being feazed at danger is, I believe, to be literally paralyzed. Total immobility often passes for pluck. It was nearly half past eight when we reached Esbly; the town was absolutely dark. Père was there with the donkey cart, and it took nearly an hour and a half to climb the hill to Huiry. It was pitch dark, and oh, so cold! Both Condé and Voisins, as well as Esbly, had street lamps--gas--before the war, but it was cut off when mobilization began, and so the road was black. This ordinary voyage seemed like journeying in a wilderness, and I was as tired as if I had been to London, which I take to be the hardest trip for the time it consumes that I know. I used to go to London in seven hours, and this trip to Paris and back had taken four hours and a half by train and three by carriage. I found your letter dated September 25--in reply to my first one mailed after the battle. I am shocked to hear that I was spectacular. I did not mean to be. I apologize. Please imagine me very red in the face and feeling a little bit silly. I should not mind your looking on me as a heroine and all those other names you throw at me if I had had time to flee along the roads with all I could save of my home on my back, as I saw thousands doing. But I cannot pick up your bouquets, considering that all I had to do was "sit tight" for a few days, and watch--at a safe distance--a battle sweep back. All you must say about that is "she did have luck." That's what I say every day. As our railway communication is to be cut again, I am hurrying this off, not knowing when I can send another. But as you see, I have no news to write--just words to remind you of me, and say that all is well with me in this world where it is so ill for many. V November 7, 1914 IT was not until I got out my letter-book this morning that I realized that I had let three weeks go by without writing to you. I have no excuse to offer, unless the suspense of the war may pass as one. We have settled down to a long war, and though we have settled down with hope, I can tell you every day demands its courage.