At the solicitation of many friends I am publishing, unknown to my daughter, these letters written by her while in the service of the Y.M.C.A. The letters have come to me scribbled in lead pencil and in every color of ink upon an assortment of stationery that in itself revealed the snatching of whatever opportunity to write occurred in a busy life.
et. No one ever smiled. Faces were dull and joyless. Clothes were old. Shoes were shapeless and soggy. Every one seemed hopeless rather than actively sorrowful. And in the keen, blonde faces of the men one sees about Whitehall, the men on the inside of affairs, there was a far-away, set, determined expression.
We had arrived in London on New Year's day, Wednesday, and were to leave on Sunday. Sunday afternoon we were all taken to South Hampton and after interminable business at the customs house we boarded a channel boat for Havre. A smooth passage. At 5.45 a.m. I looked out of the porthole and there was the shore of France, all black, with little lights twinkling and a great white searchlight flashing back and forth over the water. After breakfast, when we went up on deck, the sky was rosy with the approaching sunrise, and suddenly in a burst of glory the sun came out of a golden cloud and warmed us all! It was an indescribably beautiful scene. The masts of many ships and all the ropes and rigging aga