often do, she kept all these sayings and pondered them in her heart.

The promise of spring passed into the sultry heat of summer. The
storm-cloud of the twentieth century blackened over Europe. The
wise men of Berlin made mad by pride, devoted the world not to
the Prince of Peace but to the lords of war. In the first week of
August the fury of the German invasion broke on Belgium. No one had
dared to dream the terrors of that tempest. It was like a return
of the Dark Ages. Every home trembled. The pillars of the tranquil
house of Azan were shaken.

The daughter was away at school in England, and that was an unmixed
blessing. The son was a lieutenant in the Belgian army; and that
was right and glorious, but it was also a dreadful anxiety. The
father and mother were divided in mind, Whether to stay or take
flight with their friends. At last the father decided the hard
question.

"It is our duty to stay. We cannot fight for our country, but we
can suffer with her. Our daughter is in safety; our son's danger we
cannot and would not prevent. How could we really live away from
here, our home, our trees? I went to consult the cardinal. He stays,
and he advises us to do so. He says that will be the best way to
show our devotion. As Christians we must endure the evil that we
cannot prevent; but as Belgians our hearts will never consent to
it."

That was their attitude as the tide of blood and tears drew nearer
to them, surrounded them, swept beyond them, engulfed the whole
land. The brutal massacres at Andenne and Dinant were so near that