that are not torn through at the trunks, and its red-roofed homesteads, covered with ivy and with chimneys smoking for tea.
I see our armies arriving at Charing Cross, after stretching their necks in thick clumps through the carriage windows to catch the earliest glimpse of it. I see the platform of the railway station crowded with fluctuating masses of women, who have come up from every part of the city and from every quarter of the kingdom to meet the trains from France—the wives, mothers, sisters, sweethearts who are the daughters of Britain. I see all the distinctions of classes and all the reserve of strangers broken down, at the bidding of a great national impulse—one joy, one pride, one glory.
Perhaps it is night outside the station, and perhaps it is raining, but that makes no difference. As our men sweep through the streets, saluted by shouts, the big, busy, tumultuous city seems to them to be laughing aloud. Motor-buses, taxis,
