M. le Cure has a beautiful rose garden, a cask of excellent cider, a passable Sauterne, and a charming pony.  He is a good fellow, I should think, though without much education.  His house—­or what I have seen of it—­is the exact opposite of what an English country vicar’s would be.  The only sitting-room that I have seen is as neat as an old maid’s.  There is a polished floor, an oval polished table on which repose four large albums at regular intervals, each on its own little mat.  There is a mantelpiece with gilt candlesticks and an ornate clock under a glass dome.  Round the walls are photographs of brother clergy, the place of honour being assigned to a stout Chanoine.  The chairs are stiff and uncomfortable.  One of them, which is more imposing and uncomfortable than the rest, is obviously for the Bishop when he comes.  There are no papers, no books, no ash-trays, no confusion.  I have never seen M. le Cure sit there.  I fancy he lives in the kitchen and in his garden.

Timothy sleeps in the bed which the Bishop uses, and is told he ought to feel tres saint.

The wife of the schoolmaster cooks for us.  She is an excellent soul.  We give her full marks.  She has a smile and an omelette for every emergency, and waves aside all Timothy’s vagaries with “Ah, monsieur, la jeunesse!” I am not sure that Timothy quite likes it!

Timothy is immense.  He is that rarest of birds, a wholly delightful egotist.  He is the sun, but we all bask and shine with reflected glory.  The men are splendid, because they are his men.  I am a great success because I am his subaltern.  Fortunately we all have a sense of humour and so are highly pleased with ourselves and each other.  After all, if one is a Captain at twenty-two ...!  But he’s a good soldier, too, and we all believe in him.  Timothy’s all right, in spite of la jeunesse!

* * * * *

Rain!  The men are fifteen in a tent in a sea of mud.  Poor beggars!  They are having a thin time.  Working parties in the trenches day and night; every one soaked to the skin; and then a return to a damp, crowded, muddy tent.  No pay, no smokes, and yet they are wonderfully cheery, and all think that the “Push” is going to end the war.  I wish I thought so!

* * * * *

These rats are the limit!  The dugout swarms with them.  Last night they ate half my biscuits and a good part of Timothy’s clean socks, and whenever I began to get to sleep one of them would run across my face, or some other sensitive part of my anatomy, and wake me up.  I shall leave the candle alight to-night, to see if that keeps them away.

* * * * *

Last night the rats tried to eat the candle, and very nearly set me on fire.  If it were not for the rain I would try the firestep.

The men are having a rotten time again—­no proper shelter from the rain, and short rations, to say nothing of remarkably good practice by the Boche artillery.  C——­, just out from England, got scuppered this afternoon.  A good boy—­made his communion just before we came in.  I suppose he didn’t know much about it, and that he is really better off now; but at the same time it makes one angry.