Five minutes later I am in a taxicab tearing down the Rue Quatre Septembre to the cable office in the Bourse. My appeal for help to Sir Gilbert Parker in London is being counted on the blue telegraph blank by the operator at the little window, when suddenly I remember I have forgotten. My hand feels helplessly over my left hip where there is concealed a letter of credit for three thousand dollars. But I falter, “I haven’t any money, that is, where I can get at it.” “I have,” speaks a voice over my shoulder. I look around into a man’s cheerful countenance. “What’s the damage?” he says again in pleasant Manhattan English. I hesitate only for an instant. “It’s sixteen francs I need.” He promptly pulls out his bank-roll. I ask for his card, of course, to return the loan the next day with many thanks for his courtesy. He, however, has no security that I will. As he puts me in my taxicab and lifts his hat beneath the faint war-dimmed light of the street lamps in the dark Rue Vivienne, he only knows that I am his country-woman. And he is an American man. The Lord seems to send them when you need them most. Three days later the awful silence in which I am suffering all the fears there are for a journalist in war-time, is broken by a reply from London: “Material only delayed. Sailed steamship _New York_ instead of _St. Louis_.” After another two weeks of fitful nights in which I dream of men in khaki who confiscate journalistic data, there comes the message from New York that is like hearing from Heaven: “Your consignment of material safely arrived.” Meanwhile, before I may be permitted to take a line out of this country, Maison de la Presse must pass on my French data. I am feverishly editing it for their approval when there is a knock at my door. The maid is there with more letters than the little brass mail box will hold. I eagerly open my American mail to find it filled with holiday greetings. So, it can still be Christmas somewhere in the world! I am standing at the window with a Christmas card in my hand, thinking pleasant thoughts of the far-away city called New York where there is still peace on earth, good-will to men, when down the Rue de Rivoli passes a motor lorry piled high with black crosses. There are fields in France that are planted with black crosses, acres and acres of them. After each new push on the front, more are required, black crosses by the cartload! I glanced at my calendar. Why, to-day is Christmas! I had quite forgotten. You see, over here all joy-making occasions seem to have been such a long while ago, like the stories of once upon a time.