[3] To-day British Embassador at Madrid.

They were bad days for the poor. We used to meet all the children
coming back from school when we went home. The poor little things
toiled up the steep, slippery hill, with often a cold wind that must
have gone through the thin worn-out jackets and shawls they had for
all covering, carrying their satchels and remnants of dinner. Those
that came from a distance always brought their dinner with them,
generally a good hunk of bread and a piece of chocolate, the poorer
ones bread alone, very often only a stale hard crust that couldn't
have been very nourishing. They were a very poor lot at our little
village, St. Quentin, and we did all we could in the way of warm
stockings and garments; but the pale, pinched faces rather haunted me,
and Henrietta and I thought we would try and arrange with the school
mistress who was wife of one of the keepers, to give them a hot plate
of soup every day during the winter months. W., who knew his people
well, rather discouraged us--said they all had a certain sort of
pride, notwithstanding their poverty, and might perhaps be offended at
being treated like tramps or beggars; but we could try if we liked.

We got a big kettle at La Ferté, and the good Mère Cécile of the Asile
lent us the tin bowls, also telling us we wouldn't be able to carry
out our plan. She had tried at the Asile, but it didn't go; the
children didn't care about the soup--liked the bread and chocolate
better. It was really a curious experience. I am still astonished when
I think of it. The soup was made at the head-keeper's cottage,
standing on the edge of the woods.

We went over the first day about eleven o'clock--a cold, clear day, a
biting wind blowing down the valley. The children were all assembled,