umbrellas and bright eyes, eyes, eyes, are everywhere. And then how light! Is this really London, this brilliant, gorgeous, glorious place, with all its thoroughfares ablaze after three years of darkness? Our soldiers almost feel as if they do not know it.
And then next day, Christmas Day, perhaps (God grant it may be sooner), I see our armies of men going up to St. Paul's to thank God for their great deliverance. I see our armies of women workers going up with them, for have they not also won the right to be called soldiers of the King? I see such a congregation in the Cathedral as can never have gathered there before; not even at the service for Kitchener, for Nurse Cavell, or yet for the old warrior, Roberts, who died on the battlefield, within sound of the guns in the war he had foretold. I see the crimson altar, the white-robed choristers and the glistening winter sunshine that is slanting in through the windows of the clerestory. I see the procession of
