one of them on the staircase, walking with the support of a dresser’s arm, a week after the operation!  Some of the patients must have suffered excruciating pain in being moved, but one never heard a murmur, and if a groan could not be kept back, it was passed over with a jest for fear we should notice it.  It was a magnificent basement, with heavy arched roofs everywhere, and practically shell-proof.  The long passages and the large kitchens were all tiled and painted white, and as the electric light was still running and the whole building was well warmed, it would have been difficult to find a more cheerful and comfortable place.  Coffee was provided for everyone, and when I took a last look round the night nurses were taking charge as if nothing had happened, and the whole place was in the regular routine of an ordinary everyday hospital.

Upstairs there was an improvised meal in progress in the office, and after our two hours’ hard work we were glad of it.  It is really wonderful how cheerful a thing a meal is in the middle of the night, with plenty of hot coffee and a borrowed cake.  It is one of the compensations of our life in hospital, and even shells are powerless to disturb it.  After that, as we knew we should have a heavy day before us, we all settled down in the safest corners we could find to get what rest we could.  The staircase leading up to the entrance hall was probably the safest spot in the building, covered as it was by a heavy arch, and it was soon packed with people in attitudes more or less restful.  A ward with a comfortable bed seemed to me quite safe enough, and I spent the night with three equally hedonistic companions.  At first we lay listening to the shells as they passed overhead, sometimes with the soft whistle of distance, and sometimes with the angry shriek of a shell passing near.  Occasionally the shriek would drop to a low howl, the note of a steam siren as it stops, and then a deafening crash and the clatter of falling bricks and glass would warn us that we had only escaped by a few yards.  But even listening to shells becomes monotonous, and my eyes gradually glued together, and I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was early morning, and daylight had just come.  The shells were still arriving, but not so fast, and mostly at a much greater distance.  But another sound came at intervals, and we had much discussion as to what it might mean.  Every three and a half minutes exactly there came two distant booms, but louder than usual, and then two terrific shrieks one after the other, exactly like the tearing of a giant sheet of calico, reminding us strongly of the famous scene in “Peter Pan.”  Away they went in the distance, and if we ever heard the explosion it was a long way off.  They certainly sounded like shells fired over our heads from quite close, and at a very low elevation, and we soon evolved the comforting theory that they were from a pair of big British guns planted up the river, and firing over