Having been scared into believing that the pastry-shops are really closing, Rootie and I bought lots of crackers, only to find them all flourishing to-day, and with no immediate prospects of closing! That is the way things go here. Lots of talk about shortage of this and that, and yet we all have everything. The last few days a very large number of soldiers--a remarkable number in fact--have come home for "permission"--I cannot imagine why. An oldest son--one of three at the front--came home this morning while we were making a call. I hated to stay on and ask questions, when I knew how much the woman wanted to talk with her boy. When he came in, both the mother and father stopped talking, and simply stared at him. Then she said, "Well, I am glad to see you alive," and kissed him on each cheek. The man said nothing, but pounded him on the back. Then the woman turned to us and explained that he was the eldest, and asked him if he had news of his brother, wounded in a hospital near Arras. The simplicity of their greeting, the wonderful control of the woman, who is having a very hard time,--her husband is dying of T.B.; she has three sons at the front; her daughter of thirty is insane, the result of the bombardment; and she herself is not strong. I think that it is interesting to see how people usually say commonplace things when they are greatly stirred. Rootie has finished writing, and is now waiting for me to come in and play "halma." Did you ever? We have bought a board, and I expect to be licked all to pieces, but here goes. Your very loving daughter, MARJE. Friday, A.M. Am writing this while waiting in the car for Mrs. Shurtleff, who is in the American Clearing House, looking up lost cases--your paper among others. I feel pretty important lined up with all the military cars, and I backed into the place perfectly, which is great, for soldiers look down on girl drivers. Am hoping one of them will crank for me! Letters from you and Dad arrived for breakfast, all about seeing the Roots. Thanks so much for them. M. XVII FROM ESTHER Paris, Monday, May 28, 1917. DEAREST MOTHER:-- I am so bursting full of the good time that we have had during the past two days that I am going to dash a line off to you--an inconsequential line--even when I know that what you want is a letter full of statistics and answers to questions. (Funny thing, I always think that I am the one who is wonderful about answering everything that you ask!) I will be good to-morrow.