front. Sister Theresia seems in no wise disconcerted by the fact
that the shells continually play over her roof. The building is
immense and spreading, and when one wing is damaged she picks up her
proteges and trots them off, bed and baggage, to another. "_Je
promene mes malades_," she said calmly, as if boasting of the varied
accommodation of an ultra-modern hospital, as she led us through
vaulted and stuccoed galleries where caryatid-saints look down in
plaster pomp on the rows of brown-blanketed pallets and the long
tables at which haggard eclopes were enjoying their evening soup.





May 15th.




I have seen the happiest being on earth: a man who has found his
job.

This afternoon we motored southwest of Nancy to a little place
called Menil-sur-Belvitte. The name is not yet intimately known to
history, but there are reasons why it deserves to be, and in one
man's mind it already is. Menil-sur-Belvitte is a village on the
edge of the Vosges. It is badly battered, for awful fighting took
place there in the first month of the war. The houses lie in a
hollow, and just beyond it the ground rises and spreads into a
plateau waving with wheat and backed by wooded slopes--the ideal