Mademoiselle has asked leave to go to the Convent to make her will.

In the streets, private carriages, army wagons, Cape carts and
ambulances graze wheels. Every hour or two a fresh edition of the
'Star' is published; public excitement climbing these bulletins, like
steps on a stair. We sit a half-dozen women in the parlour at Heath's
Hotel. Two sisters weep silently in a corner. Their father is manager
of the 'George and May'; a battle has been fought there a couple of
hours ago. No later news has come to them. A physician, with a huge
red-cross badge around his arm, puts his head in at the door, and
tells his wife that he is going out with an ambulance to bring in the
wounded. At this we are whiter than before, if it were possible.

Poor Mademoiselle returned an hour ago and was obliged to go to bed,
done up with the nervous tension.

Jacky is loose on the community; in spite of energetic endeavours
(accompanied by the laying-on of hands in my case) his Aunt Betty and
I cannot restrain his activity. He is intimate with the frequenters of
the hotel bar, and on speaking terms with half the town. The day seems
endless.

Things have gone so far, men want the issue settled, and perhaps the
irresponsible are eager for a little blood-letting; there are certain
primitive instincts which are latent in us all, and the thought of war
is stimulating.

Mr. Lace returned this afternoon and reported that he had ridden
through the lines to Jameson. He had had very little speech with the
doctor, as the time was short, and the messenger bearing the