re-entered the town. She did so, and it proved to be her husband. The
abbe is a good, kind, truthful man--but he has a humorous face.

A walk down a ruined street brings one to the opening of the trenches.
There are marks upon the walls of the German occupation.
'Berlin--Paris,' with an arrow of direction, adorns one corner. At
another the 76th Regiment have commemorated the fact that they were
there in 1870 and again in 1914. If the Soissons folk are wise they
will keep these inscriptions as a reminder to the rising generation. I
can imagine, however, that their inclination will be to whitewash,
fumigate, and forget.

A sudden turn among some broken walls takes one into the communication
trench. Our guide is a Commandant of the Staff, a tall, thin man with
hard, grey eyes and a severe face. It is the more severe towards us as
I gather that he has been deluded into the belief that about one out of
six of our soldiers goes to the trenches. For the moment he is not
friends with the English. As we go along, however, we gradually get
upon better terms, we discover a twinkle in the hard, grey eyes, and
the day ends with an exchange of walking-sticks and a renewal of the
Entente. May my cane grow into a marshal's baton.

* * * * *

A charming young artillery subaltern is our guide in that maze of
trenches, and we walk and walk and walk, with a brisk exchange of
compliments between the '75's' of the French and the '77's' of the
Germans going on high over our heads. The trenches are boarded at the
sides, and have a more permanent look than those of Flanders. Presently
we meet a fine, brown-faced, upstanding boy, as keen as a razor, who