I wonder now how “Willie,”—­as we used to call him in the days when he was considered a joke,—­feels over his latest great success—­the democratic conversion, or I suppose I should, to be correct, say the conversion to democracy, of all Russia?  It must be a queer sensation to set out to accomplish one thing, and to achieve its exact reverse.

Yesterday—­it was Sunday—­just capped the week of excitement.  It was the third beautiful day in the week,—­full of sunshine, air clear, sky blue.

In the morning, the soldiers began to drop in, to bring back books and get more, to talk a little politics, for even the destruction of the Zeppelin at Compiegne, and the news that the English were at Bapaume, was a bit damped by the untimely fall of Briand.

The boys all looked in prime condition, and they all had new uniforms, even new caps and boots.  The Canadian, who usually comes alone, had personally conducted three of his comrades, whom he formally introduced, and, as I led the way into the library, I remarked, “Mais, comme nous sommes chic aujourd’hui,” and they all laughed, and explained that it was Sunday and they were dressed for a formal call.  If any of them guessed that the new equipment meant anything they made no sign.  I imagine they did not suspect any more than I did, for they all went down the hill to lunch, each with a book under his arm.  Yet four hours later they were preparing to advance.

It was exactly four in the afternoon that news came that the French had pierced the line at Soissons—­just in front of us—­and that Noyon had been retaken—­that the cavalry were a cheval (that means that the 23d Dragoons have advanced in pursuit)—­and, only a quarter of an hour after we got the news, the assemblage general was sounded, and the 118th ordered sac au dos at half past six.

For half an hour there was a rush up the hill—­boys bringing me back my books, coming to shake hands and present me with little souvenirs, and bring the news that the camions were coming—­which meant that the 118th were going right into action again.  When a regiment starts in such a hurry that it must take a direct line, and cannot bother with railroads, the boys know what that means.

I know you’ll ask me how they took the order, so I tell you without waiting.  I saw a few pale faces—­but it was only for a moment.  A group of them stood in front of me in the library.  I had just received from the front, by post, the silk parachute of a fusee volante, on which was written:  “A Miss Mildred Aldrich Ramasse sur le champ de bataille a 20 metres des lignes Boches.  Souvenir de la patrouille de Fevrier 22, 1917,” and the signature of the Aspirant, and that was the only way I knew he had probably been on a dangerous mission.

It was the first time that I had ever seen one any nearer than in the air, during the exercises by night of which I wrote you, and one of the boys was explaining it, and its action, and use, and everyone but me was laughing at the graphic demonstration.  I don’t know why I didn’t laugh.  Usually I laugh more than anyone else.