this.

In December, when the hospitals were already full, her French friends
first took her to the one which they attended. She went in, her face
very calm, with that curious inward composure which never deserted it,
carrying in front of her with both hands a black silk bag, wherein she
had concealed an astonishing collection of treasures for the poor men! A
bottle of acidulated drops, packets of cigarettes, two of her own
mufflers, a pocket set of drafts, some English riddles translated by
herself into French (very curious), some ancient copies of an
illustrated paper, boxes of chocolate, a ball of string to make "cat's
cradles" (such an amusing game), her own packs of Patience cards, some
photograph frames, post-cards of Arles, and--most singular--a
kettle-holder. At the head of each bed she would sit down and rummage in
the bag, speaking in her slow but quite good French, to explain the use
of the acidulated drops, or to give a lesson in cat's cradles. And the
_poilus_ would listen with their polite, ironic patience, and be left
smiling, and curiously fascinated, as if they had been visited by a
creature from another world. She would move on to other beds, quite
unconscious of the effect she had produced on them and of their remarks:
"_Cette vieille dame, comme elle est bonne!_" or "_Espece d'ange aux
cheveux gris._" "_L'ange anglaise aux cheveux gris_" became in fact her
name within those walls. And the habit of filling that black silk bag
and going there to distribute its contents soon grew to be with her a
ruling passion which neither weather nor her own aches and pains, not
inconsiderable, must interfere with. The things she brought became more
marvellous every week. But, however much she carried coals to Newcastle,
or tobacco pouches to those who did not smoke, or homoeopathic
globules to such as crunched up the whole bottleful for the sake of the
sugar, as soon as her back was turned, no one ever smiled now with
anything but real pleasure at sight of her calm and truly sweet smile,
and the scent of soap on her pale hands. "_Cher fils, je croyais que
ceci vous donnerait un peu de plaisir. Voyez-vous comme c'est commode,
n'est ce pas?_" Each newcomer to the wards was warned by his comrades
that the English angel with the grey hair was to be taken without a
smile, exactly as if she were his grandmother.

In the walk to the hospital Augustine would accompany her, carrying the
bag and perhaps a large peasant's umbr