'A GREAT Mother Hen,' so wrote one who for the first time saw the work of the Y.M.C.A. for the relatives of dangerously wounded men. This work is carried on in London and a number of provincial centres, but it is seen at its best in France, for there it is on a much larger scale. If a man is dangerously wounded and lying in one of the hospitals on the other side of the Channel, a message is sent to his people at home containing the requisite permission to visit him, and telling them, moreover, that from the moment they reach France the Y.M.C.A. will take care of them. Red Triangle motors meet every boat as it reaches a French port; automatically the relatives of wounded, or 'Les Parents Blessées' as the French call them, are handed over to our care, and we motor them to their destination--assisted sometimes by the Red Cross. As this may mean a run of eighty or a hundred miles, and in war time may mean a whole day, or possibly two days on the French railways, the motor run is in itself a great boon. During the whole of the time they are in France, the relatives are entertained as the guests of the Red Triangle in the special hostels that have been established for the purpose in the principal bases. Many of them have never been away from their own homes before; they know no language but their own, and a journey of the kind would have its terrors at any time, but to all the ordinary difficulties has now to be added the fact that they are consumed with anxiety on account of those who are dearer than life itself. It means everything to them that the Y.M.C.A. as a 'Great Mother Hen' takes them under its protection, soothes and protects them, so that in the darkest moments of their lives they are not dealt with by any officials who have to get through so many cases in a given time, but by sympathetic friends, actuated only by the love of God, and of country. One of the most beautiful of these hostels is 'Les Iris.' It is hidden away in the depths of a wood near the sea, and in the springtime the nights are full of the melody of the nightingales. This hostel is reserved largely for the use of the relatives of dangerously wounded officers. The lady who presides over another of the hostels has been called the Florence Nightingale of the Red Triangle, and indeed that would be a suitable name for any of these ladies who take the relatives to their hearts, and do everything possible to comfort and cheer them and make them feel at home. As we write, a letter from one of our guests lies before us. We quote from it because it is typical of thousands of letters received from grateful friends:--