There followed a very fine exhibition of riding and the usual torchlight
tricks, and then the supreme moment came. The massed bands had thundered
out the first verse of the Evening Hymn, the refrain was taken up by a
single silver trumpet far away--a sweet thin almost unearthly note more
to be felt than heard--and then the bands gathered up the whole melody
and everybody sang the last verse together.

The Last Post followed, and then I think somehow we all knew.

* * * * *

A week later I had a telegram from the Red Cross summoning me to London.

London was a hive of ceaseless activity. Territorials were returning
from their unfinished training, every South Coast train was crowded with
Naval Reserve men who had been called up, every one was buying kits,
getting medical comforts, and living at the Army and Navy Stores. Nurses
trained and untrained were besieging the War Office demanding to be
sent to the front, Voluntary Aid Detachment members were feverishly
practising their bandaging, working parties and ambulance classes were
being organized, crowds without beginning and without end were surging
up and down the pavements between Westminster and Charing Cross, wearing
little flags, buying every half-hour edition of the papers and watching
the stream of recruits at St. Martin's. All was excitement--no one knew
what was going to happen. Then the bad news began to come through from
Belgium, and every one steadied down and settled themselves to their
task of waiting or working, whichever it might happen to be.

I was helping at the Red Cross Centre in Vincent Square, and all day
long there came an endless procession of women wanting to help, some