"Hello, old boy!" he said to me in perfect English. "How are you?"

I replied, but must have looked my astonishment at his knowledge of my
language, for he went on to explain.

"I got over from the States just the week war broke out. I worked in North
Dakota, and had saved up and planned to come over and marry my sweetheart,
who waited in Brussels for me. I have not seen her. She must be lost in the
passing of the enemy. I have gathered a very little money, enough to start
on the small farm which is my inheritance. Come and see it--come and have
dinner with me."

I accepted his invitation, and we walked over together. The Belgian spoke
all the way of his fine property and good farm. All the while there was a
twinkle in his eye, and at last I asked him what size was his great farm.

"Ten acres," said he, and laughed at my amazement at so small a holding.

We reached the house, which proved to be a three-roomed shack. In a little,
dinner was served and we went in to sit down. Not only the owner and
myself, but fifteen others sat down to a meal of weak soup and war bread.
The other guests at the table were fourteen old women and one young girl.
They sat in a steady brooding silence. I asked the Belgian if they
understood English. They did not, and so I questioned him.

"Very big family this you've got," I remarked. I knew what they were, but
just wanted to draw him out.

"Oh, they're not my family."