You see I am being good this week and not neglecting you as I did two weeks ago. I still get embarrassed when I think of that time. We are hearing all sorts of rumors about no boats going for thirty days, but there is no reason to believe them any more than the many other rumors we hear all the time, so I shall keep on writing, anyway, and nowadays I make a carbon copy of each letter that I send. It does not take any longer, and it seems to me to be well worth while. Things are about the same here. Very busy. We have finally secured the storehouse and are moving into it this week. The present plan is to have all our reserve stock there, and have only just enough on the shelves to meet the demands during the week. The car will go to the storehouse once or twice a week, and get the necessary things. In this way we will have much more room in the vestiaires themselves, and it will be easier to handle more people. We have just taken stock of our food-supply and find to our joy that it is considerably larger than we realized. This means that we can enlarge that department, and with Rootie there it will be splendid, I think. I hate to let it go at all, and am going just the same Tuesday afternoons, but I know that it will soon be impossible for me to give up that much time. We hope to move ten families a week. This will mean pretty close calculations on time for all of us. It is wonderful to feel that I may be able to be of some real use to some one for the first time in my life. I have not felt so strong and well and so well equipped for a winter as I do now, for a long time. We have laid in a supply of coal and wood, and are as cozy as can be. I am letting many little petty time-taking jobs slide along to some one else, and am just saving myself for the furniture above everything else. That sounds as if I was not doing any hard work. I truly am. We moved all the things from the store we call Maggi, and which is on Ernest Cresson, a little farther down, over to the rue Daguerre storehouse, and I can tell you it was some job for all of us--piling the things in the car, and then unloading at the other end. Gay Kimberly's husband returned suddenly, so I had to run the car, as Rootie was out calling with a Red Cross man who wants to know the conditions of refugees living in Paris. (By the bye, a Maxwell car with a starter has been given us. I wish it was a Ford, on account of essence, but we must not be fussy, I suppose.)