In my own department I always let Zeal spend itself unchecked, and I find that people who have claimed work or a job ferociously are the first to complain of over-work if left to themselves.  Afterwards, if there is any good in them, they settle down into their stride.  They are only like young horses, pulling too hard at first and sweating off their strength—­jibbing one moment and shying the next—­when it comes to “’ammer, ’ammer, ’ammer on the ’ard ’igh road,” one finds who is going to stick it and who is not.

There has been some heavy firing round about Nieuport and south of the Yser lately, and an unusual number of wounded have been coming in, many of them “gravement blesses.”

One evening a young French officer came to the kitchen for soup.  It was on Wednesday, December 16th, the day the Allies assumed the offensive, and all night cases were being brought in.  He was quite a boy, and utterly shaken by what he had been through.  He could only repeat, “It was horrible, horrible!” These are the men who tell brave tales when they get home, but we see them dirty and worn, when they have left the trenches only an hour before, and have the horror of battle in their eyes.

There are scores of “pieds geles” at present, and I now have bags of socks for these.  So many men come in with bare feet, and I hope in time to get carpet slippers and socks for them all.  One night no one came to help, and I had a great business getting down a long train, so Mrs. Logette has promised to come every evening.  The kitchen is much nicer now, as we are in a larger passage, and we have three stoves, lamps, etc.  Many things are being “straightened out” besides, my poor little corner and war seems better understood.  There is hardly a thing which is not thought of and done for the sick and wounded, and I should say a grievance was impossible.

I still lodge at the Villa Joos, and am beginning to enjoy a study of middle-class provincial life.  The ladies do all the house-work.  We have breakfast (a bite) in the kitchen at 8.30 a.m., then I go to make soup, and when I come back after lunch for a rest, “the family” are dressed and sitting round a stove, and this they continue to do till a meal has to be prepared.  There is one lamp and one table, and one stove, and unless papa plays the pianola there is nothing to do but talk.  No one reads, and only one woman does a little embroidery, while the small girl of the party cuts out scraps from a fashion paper.

The poor convoy! it is becoming very squabbly and tiresome, and there is a good deal of “talking over,” which is one of the weakest sides of “communal life.”  It is petty and ridiculous to quarrel when Death is so near, and things are so big and often so tragic.  Yet human nature has strict limitations.  Mr. Ramsay MacDonald came out from the committee to see what all the complaints were about.  So there were strange interviews, in store-rooms, etc. (no one has a place to call their own!), and everyone “explained” and “gave evidence” and tried to “put matters straight.”