"Monsieur Seegnal Box" went this morning and everybody was sorry to see him go, for he was a congenial spirit, and, like us, found nothing attractive about war. He seemed a protection, too, from the beast that is ever snarling at the door.

A young cousin of the family related to us to-day how much at home the soldiers have felt in his chÂteau in the country; so much so, in fact, that they have already sent off to Germany all his old family portraits and the best rugs. Here is a bit of psychology for you to unravel. Why should they want his family portraits?

I suppose you could not imagine such a thing happening in America. Well, just try for a moment.Fancy somebody's coming in and explaining to you that you cannot use your own things and that your choice possessions will have a far better setting in Germany than where they are. I think it would do the world a lot of good if everyone tried such a mental drill for three minutes a day.

A great depression hung over the Convent to-day—the men were quiet, showing their consideration for the "camarade" as they always do. Constant, who received internal injuries at Fort d'Embourg, is dying and Augustin is worse. The latter's face has a gray-blue look and his poor jaws are very stiff. But there is hope! Oh, yes, there is Hope in big Jean's smile across the ward, as he follows us around with his great, black eyes. One can find lots of sympathy in a "Oui, Mademoiselle," or a "Non, Mademoiselle," (which is all he ever says) even when it has nothing to do with the question.

Since the commandant has taken the auto we no longer go out. It is much too complicated anyway, as one has to show a passport at every bridge and corner. Every acre of land is infested with soldiers. It is interesting, however, to see what they do and how they turn everything to some use. Men are sent from Germany to repair railroads, build bridges, put up telephones, institute food stations and to kill pigs and wash the meat in porcelain bath tubs as we saw them do yesterday, outside a free bath establishment near one of the factories. As we were looking down on the road tonight, from a hill perhaps two hundred yards away, we saw distinctly a column of soldiers in dark blue uniforms, marching across country, and just behind them the ground seemed to writhe and wriggle in a distressing manner. For a moment we could not imagine what was happening, when soon a company of men in khaki began to evolve itself from the landscape. Does that not prove the inestimable value of earth-colored clothes? For as close as they were to us, we could distinguish nothing.

This gray-green which the Germans wear is by far the best tone of khaki that I have yet seen.

Soldiers are stripping the factories here of their fine machinery, but one sort of chuckles in one's boots when he remembers that it was originally bought in Germany and has not been paid for yet.

All day long, trains without ceasing were bringing back the wounded. We do not know exactly where the fighting is, but probably near Charleroi. A Baron de C. and his wife arrived here at ten P. M. from Posen, one of the German provinces already taken by the Russians. Crazed with anxiety, they are going in search of their son, who was wounded at Namur, and have been three days in a military train—an excruciating journey! At midnight, the soldiers and the chef de cuisine, who has had his kitchen in the court, departed. Before going they sang softly some of their songs and then the wagons, one by one, filed out of the moonlight and were swallowed up in the shadows of the trees. I felt as if the candle had been blown out for them.