the face of a very young _collegien_) is
white, the features are blurred and inert. Max is asleep with his
dish-cloth in his hand, in the sudden, pathetic sleep of exhaustion.
After his brief, funny madness, he is asleep. Jean comes and looks at
him and shakes his head. You understand from Jean that Max goes mad like
that now and then on purpose, so that he may forget in what manner his
mother went mad.

We go quietly so as not to wake him a minute too soon, lest when he
wakes he should remember.

There is a Taube hovering over Ghent.

Up there, in the clear blue sky it looks innocent, like an enormous
greyish blond dragon-fly hovering over a pond. You stare at it,
fascinated, as you stare at a hawk that hangs in mid-air, steadied by
the vibration of its wings, watching its prey.

You are not in the least disturbed by the watching Taube. An aeroplane,
dropping a few bombs, is nothing to what goes on down there where the
ambulances are.

The ambulances have come back. I go out into the yard to look at them.
They are not always nice to look at; the floors and steps would make you
shudder if you were not past shuddering.

I have found something to do. Not much, but still something. I am to
look after the linen for the ambulances, to take away the blood-stained
pillow-slips and blankets, and deliver them at the laundry and get clean
ones from the linen-room. It's odd, but I'm almost foolishly elated at
being allowed to do this. We are still more or less weighed down by the
sense of our uselessness. Even the Chaplain, though his services as a
stretcher-bearer have been definitely recognized--even the Chaplain
continues to suffer in this way. He has just come to me to tell me with
pride that he is making a good job of the stretchers he has got to mend.

Then, just as I am beginning to lift up my head, the blow falls. Not one
member of the Field Ambulance Corps is to be allowed to work at the
Palais des Fetes, for fear of bringing fever into the Military Hospital.
And here we are, exactly where we were at the beginning of the week,
Mrs. Lambert, Janet McNeil and I, three women out of five, with nothing
to do and two convalescent orderlies waiting on us. If I could please
myself I would tuck Max up in bed and wait on _him_.

In spite of the ambulance linen, this is the worst day of all for the
wretched Secretary and Reporter. Five days in Ghent and not a thing
done; not a line written of those brilliant articles (from