few months in England, though full of sad memories for his friends, contained little but satisfaction for himself.  He still spent many a lonely evening by his fire, but his thoughts were now far more pleasurable than in the old Lusitania days.  The one absorbing subject of contemplation now was that America was “in.”  His country had justified his deep confidence.  The American Navy had played a determining part in defeating the submarine, and American shipyards were turning out merchant ships faster than the Germans were destroying them.  American troops were reaching France at a rate which necessarily meant the early collapse of the German Empire.  Page’s own family had responded to the call and this in itself was a cause of great contentment to a sick and weary man.  The Ambassador’s youngest son, Frank, had obtained a commission and was serving in France; his son-in-law, Charles G. Loring, was also on the Western Front; while from North Carolina Page’s youngest brother Frank and two nephews had sailed for the open battle line.  The bravery and success of the American troops did not surprise the Ambassador but they made his last days in England very happy.

Indeed, every day had some delightful experience for Page.  The performance of the Americans at Cantigny especially cheered him.  The day after this battle he and Mrs. Page entertained Mr. Lloyd George and other guests at lunch.  The Prime Minister came bounding into the room with his characteristic enthusiasm, rushed up to Mrs. Page with both hands outstretched and shook hands joyously.

“Congratulations!” he exclaimed.  “The Americans have done it!  They have met the Prussian guard and defeated them!”

Mr. Lloyd George was as exuberant over the achievement as a child.

This was now the kind of experience that had become Page’s daily routine.  Lively as were his spirits, however, his physical frame was giving way.  In fact Page, though he did not know it at the time, was suffering from a specific disease—­nephritis; and its course, after Christmas of 1917, became rapid.  His old friend, Dr. Wallace Buttrick, had noted the change for the worse and had attempted to persuade him to go home.

“Quit your job, Page,” he urged.  “You have other big tasks waiting you at home.  Why don’t you go back?”

“No—­no—­not now.”

“But, Page,” urged Dr. Buttrick, “you are going to lay down your life.”

“I have only one life to lay down,” was the reply.  “I can’t quit now.”

     To Mary E. Page[75]

     London, May 12, 1918.

     DEAR MARY: 

You’ll have to take this big paper and this paint brush pen—­it’s all the pen these blunt British have.  This is to tell you how very welcome your letter to Alice is—­how very welcome, for nobody writes us the family news and nothing is so much appreciated.  I’ll try to call the shorter roll of us in the same way: