e were sad and rather silent all the way
to Vitrimont; and Vitrimont, at first glance, was a sight to make us
sadder than any we had seen. There had been a Vitrimont, a happy little
place, built of gray and rose-red stones; now, of those stones hardly
one lies upon another, except in rubble heaps. And yet, Vitrimont isn't
sad as others of the ruined towns are sad. It even cheered us, after
Leomont, because a star of hope shines over the field of desolation--a
star that has come out of the west. Some wonderful women of San
Francisco decided to "adopt" Vitrimont, as one of the little places of
France which had suffered most in the war. Two of them, Miss Polk and
Miss Crocker--girls rather than women--gave themselves as well as their
money to the work. In what remains of Vitrimont--what they are making of
Vitrimont--they live like two fresh roses that have taken root in a pile
of ashes. With a few books, a few bowls of flowers, pictures, and bits
of bright chintz they have given charm to their poor rooms in the
half-ruined house of a peasant. This has been their home for many
months, from the time when they were the only creatures who shared
Vitrimont with its ghosts: but now other homes are growing under their
eyes and through their charity; thanks to them, the people of the
destroyed village are trooping back, happy and hopeful. The church has
been repaired (that was done first, "because it is God's house") with
warm-coloured pink walls and neat decoration; and plans for the
restoring of the whole village are being carried out, while the waiting
inhabitants camp in a village of toy-like bungalows given by the French
Government. I never saw such looks of worshipping love cast upon human
beings as those of the people of Vitrimont for these two American girls.
I'm sure they believe that Miss Crocker and Miss Polk are saints
incarnated for their sakes by "_la Sainte Vierge_." One old man said as
much!

He was so old that it seemed as if he could never have been young, yet
he was whistling a toothless but patriotic whistle, over some bit of
amateur-carpenter work, in front of a one-room bungalow. Inside, visible
through the open door, was the paralyzed wife he had lately wheeled
"home" to Vitrimont, in some kind of a cart. "Oh, yes, we are happy!" he
stopped whistling to say. "We are fortunate, too. We think we have found
the place where our _street_ used to be, and these Angels--we do not
call them Demoiselles, but Angels--f