news. His cousin Robert had been killed near Gand. The old butler's eyes

were sweet to see when Madame X. turned at table and said to him,

"Francois, Monsieur Robert is dead." This man of one syllable, according

to his custom, answered simply, quick tears visible, "_Oui, Madame_"

with that gentle upward intonation which says so much.

The longest sentence he probably ever constructed was uttered

thirty-five years ago when his young master had wished to dismiss him

for some reason and he had answered, "Oh no, Monsieur, we could not

live, either one of us without the other," which settled the question

for all time. And now the master is laid to rest and the servant must

serve the enemy in his house.

We took a little walk in the woods, this afternoon--as the coast was

clear and no strangers in the house for the first time in three weeks.

We had hardly finished a short promenade when we heard a violent

clanging on the gong to call us back, and when we returned in all haste

to the house found seven soldiers in the library going through all the

drawers and closets in search of firearms. Commencing there, they

searched the whole house from top to bottom, even fumbling in the

bureaus among the dainty lingerie of Madame X. Some of them took an

obvious pleasure in performing their duty, while others looked

uncomfortable and bored. It is true that many of the men hate this war,

whereby whole families of brothers and cousins have to leave their homes

to fight what they call the "Aristocrats' War," who in their arrogance

think to be masters of the whole world.

Some newspapers, two weeks old, were brought from Brussels in the

evening and we pounced upon them as a starved dog makes for a bone.

_September 5th, Saturday._ (At the ambulance.)

"_Constant, le pauvre Constant!_ What is in your tortured soul, these

three long days and nights, that chains it to earth and tosses your

poor body from one troubled thought to another?"

I did not think to have my question answered. At eleven o'clock this

morning a child of twelve years, beautiful as an angel with heavenly

blue eyes and a shock of golden hair, dashed breathlessly into the

courtyard of the Convent, almost too exhausted to ask if _Soldat_

Constant Martin, by any chance, were there. The gentle _Soeur Cecile_

led him in to the sick man's cot. The boy gazed a moment, bewildered at

the wasted form upon it; then with an agonizing cry of "_mon pere_" fell

on his knees by the bedside. The man's eyelids trembled, half opened an

instant to look upon his son, and closed. In ten minutes he was at

peace.

Since the railroad has been reconstructed the soldiers have been passing

in trains instead of on foot. Today we saw hundreds of older men,

Bavarians and sailors--it looks as if something had miscarried when the

marines have to fight on land. In the opposite direction, thousands of

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