When we arrived in this town, after our long cross-country journey from our landing port, we were conscious of a pleasant feeling of anticipation. We thought of the folk who had seen us off at home—cramming the railway stations, cheering, waving, weeping—and though we naturally did not expect such a demonstration, we did expect something. Well, it did not turn out that way. We arrived almost furtively, in the dead of night, in a station where one gas-lamp in six was burning. We were warned to fall in quietly, and to refrain from noise as we marched through the town. “Not a very overwhelming display of cordiality, I’m afraid,” said Major Floyd; “but we are up against official secrets again. A lady called Dora:[1] you will become well acquainted with her. It is not officially known to any one—except the Boche, of course—that this is an American Rest Depot, so we are concealing the fact from the inhabitants. The streets are a bit dark, I’m afraid; but we are precious short of coal—supplying France and Italy as well as ourselves—and that hits our lighting arrangements rather hard. Besides, we have the Gothas to think of. Are your men ready to move off, Colonel? Very good: I’ll lead the way. You will notice our solitary attempt at the glad-hand business just outside the station.” The “solitary attempt” proved to be a discreetly illuminated notice spanning the street on the _façade_ of an arch. It said: WELCOME, AMERICA! As an emotional outburst the greeting was perhaps open to criticism on the score of reticence; but to some of us, who knew our stiff, angular, inarticulate England better than others, there was something rather moving about the whole idea. We tramped under the sign. Those who had the fancy to turn and look up at the other face of the arch found another notice: GOD-SPEED! “‘God-speed’! That’s a bit sudden,” observed a young machine-gunner to a grizzled English sergeant who was acting as assistant shepherd. “We’ve hardly arrived yet.” “That ain’t meant for you, my lad,” replied the veteran. “You ain’t supposed to read that—yet. That’s for another lot of your boys what are starting off to-night for France. You’ll likely meet ’em coming down the ’ill as you goes up.” We did. And when the event took place—when the two bands of tramping American exiles brushed hands for a moment in the soft summer darkness of a strange land—I fear there was some transgression of official regulations on the subject of silent and secret night marching. But, after all, there are limits to human virtue. Yes, everybody here appears decidedly busy—especially the women. That shrewd observer of humanity, Al Thompson, does not fail to remark upon the fact in a letter to his wife: