It was a lovely June evening. The night breeze, fragrant with new-mown hay and the perfume of sleeping field-flowers, stole through the open window, fluttering the "Veilleuse" as it cast its feeble light and shadow over the still form lying in the white sheet, so soon to become its shroud. The old "Demoiselle" sat there in pious thought, her eyes fixed on the boy she had nursed so many months, now so near to death; the boy whose soul had been washed clean by the Holy Sacrament and whose body was so soon to disappear from the world of men. Poor fellow, so far from all who loved him, his white features showed pinched and thin in the light of the crescent moon, looking over the black masses of trees into the desolate white room. From time to time his stiffening lips murmured "mother." He turned his head feebly from side to side seeking her, who, in a far-away province, knew nothing of her son's agony. The hours dragged on, the young moon disappeared behind the trees, the moribund moaned gently from time to time. A cooler breeze, fore-runner of morning freshness, swept through the wood. The "Demoiselle" still kept her vigil, changing her patient's pillow, holding a cup of water to his lips. Suddenly he gave an agonizing cry: "My mother! My mother! Where art thou? I cannot see! It is growing dark! Hold me, my mother, hold me!" Then to the old maid came her great moment. Taking the poor, trembling form in her arms, she pillowed the rolling head on her bosom and pressing her lips to the dying boy's forehead she whispered: "I am here, my son! Do not fear. I, your mother, hold you. You are safe in my arms, my little one. Rest in peace." The sun rose in glorious June splendor; the birds were singing their morning matins; the dewy flowers cast forth a ravishing fragrance—only in the sickroom was there silence, but also a holy peace, for the old maid—she who had never lied, who had scorned and reproved those who did so—had lied eagerly to comfort the passing spirit of a boy. Dinard, June, 1915. [Illustration] THE SONS OF FRANCE 1915 To you, in God's country, safe and sound, far removed from the conditions existing over here, a few notes of our daily existence may not come amiss. First, let me quote the lines found on a dead boy in Champagne, his "Feuille de route" (diary), which shows eloquently how the little "piou-piou" feels these sorrowful days of 1914. FEUILLE DE ROUTE Diary of Albert Ledrean, volunteer for France in the war of 1914. Aged 18 years. In the 10th Regiment of Infantry. Fell on the field of honor, October 17th, 1914, in Champagne. (This diary was found on his body and sent home to his mother.):