Monsieur J. came home today with bad news, though every day has its bad 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, "FranÇois, 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.