On the following Sunday was held the yearly service for the dead. There were six or seven hundred people present, again mostly women, and again all in black. Many of them wept silently throughout the service, others gave way now and again to audible outbursts of grief. I could only see one living German soldier, but who shall say the spirits of how many dead were there? [Illustration: SERVICE FOR THE DEAD] A POLISH BAPTISM In our walks abroad we have frequently passed a humble little chapel, which has been built for the numerous Poles who work on the farms in the neighbourhood. One Sunday forenoon in October, when hints and hopes of peace were in the air, I accompanied the padre and the Roman Catholic party in camp to this chapel, and was witness of a very interesting and picturesque baptismal ceremony. The low-roofed room with its humble altar at one end, its walls hung with the stations of the cross, and perforated with windows showing the golden dying glories of the trees, was crowded with these rural folks. The women and girls were wearing quaint and brightly-coloured skirts and head-dresses showing pathetic effort after fashion and fitness of attire for the occasion. A virile femininity this, obviously built for child-bearing. In fact, most of the women seem to be in an interesting condition, and the officiating priest has no fewer than five infants to baptize. From these bundles of babyhood, which look like white bolsters tied with brightly-coloured ribands, comes a continuous, but not too vehement, crying, which, even to my not unsympathetic ear, seems something similar to the squealing of little pigs. Three women stand up, supported by their lawful lords, ungainly, in unfamiliar Sunday garments, and diminutive beside their wives. Ever and anon one of the women performs mystery and miracle with her fingers in the mouth of her offspring to the temporary appeasing of its rage. The remaining two women, who are seated, are in deep black, and their husbands are not forthcoming. When their turn arrives, and they too stand before the priest, there is something peculiarly pathetic in the unconscious crying of these posthumous infants whose fathers have doubtless fallen, just as I can behold the leaves falling from the trees outwith the windows. These humble folk, many of them, would desire to remain behind for our service, but the guard has received special instructions from the Commandant this morning, and the German soldiers turn them out. One elderly dame makes a spirited demand for admission, and, the soldier proving obdurate, she bides her time until his back is turned, then enters and falls upon her knees facing the altar as if defying him to turn her out. The padre gives us a little homily on the approaching peace, with a further urging of that “Peace which the world cannot give.”