The blind are the most childlike as a general rule of all the people we deal with, and the outfit we give them and the kindness and help they receive at the Vestiaire mean to them a new start in life, as we have learned from guards afterwards. Such brave fellows! It is an exception to see one downcast or morose, but when you do, your heart aches twice as much, not only for them, but for the many gay ones who have conquered despair. One boy twenty-four years old was wounded in the leg and dragged himself along the ground half conscious, to find he was dragging himself toward the German trenches. At this point he was struck again and his eyes put out. He lay between the trenches under fire for days, unconscious most of the time and feigning death the rest. By a miracle he escaped being killed. He was picked up and taken to a hospital; has been there six months, and is now starting out to learn a trade--in the dark. I love to do what I can for them, especially as this is my one chance to know the French poilu. You would laugh to see me measuring and fitting, especially when it comes to holding up underwear to some dear blind giant. I remember all too well how at the age of eight I used to wriggle in Altman's when mother insisted on "getting an idea how they would go" by holding "them" up to me. Every saleswoman and floorwalker got the idea clearly. There are moments when blindness is not such a misfortune. The blind soldiers are always interested to know what their new clothes look like. "C'est de quel couleur, Mademoiselle?" "Dark brown," I say, "and I will give you a brown and white tie." "Ah que je serai chic, moi!" One of his comrades would nudge him and say, "Je voudrais bien avoir les yeux pour te voir, maintenant, mon vieux! C'est vrai que tu vais te marier?" (I would like to have eyes to see you now, old fellow; is it true you are just going to be married?) Then they laugh and thank me "mille fois" and shake hands and wish me good luck. Sometimes I walk down the street with them and guide them along. I admire their medals and tell them that the passers-by are looking at them, etc. We never say the word "aveugle" (blind), but "blessé" (wounded). Sometimes when we have to wait for their guards I sit on the table and tell them all about my crossing and about America, and, oh, a hundred things. We do have good times--for the moment. I have tried to give you a grasp of what we have to meet and how we try to meet it. First, the French system of pensions and rents, then the giving of clothes and the moving of families, then the field work and the work for the blind. I haven't told about the Ouvroir because I am not well enough informed. We give employment to many women in making clothes for the Vestiaire,--flannel shirts and petticoats, underclothes, dresses, everything. All materials, clothes, furniture, or their equivalent in money, come from America.