It seems that Miss ---- is a hospital orderly, and that her duty is to stand at the gate of the garden with a lantern as the ambulances come in and to light them to the door of the hospital, and then to see that each man has the number of his cot pinned to the breast of his sleeping-jacket. Mrs. Stobart, very properly, will have none but trained women in her hospital. But even an untrained woman is equal to holding a lantern and pinning on tickets, so I implored Miss ---- to let me take her place while she went back to rest in my room at Ghent, if it was only for one night. I used every argument I could think of, and for one second I thought the best argument had prevailed. But it was only for a second. Probably not even for a second. Miss ---- may drop to pieces at her post, but it is there that she will drop. Outside on the verandah the Commandant was fairly ramping to be off. No--I can't see the Hospital. There isn't any time to see the Hospital. But Miss ---- could not bear me not to see it, and together we made a surreptitious bolt for it, and I did see the Hospital. It was not like any hospital you had ever seen before. Except that the wounded were all comfortably bedded, it was more like the sleeping-hall of the Palais des Fetes. The floor of the great concert-hall was covered with mattresses and beds, where the wounded lay about in every attitude of suffering. No doubt everything was in the most perfect order, and the nurses and doctors knew how to thread their way through it all, but to the hurried spectator in the doorway the effect was one of the most _macabre_ confusion. Only one object stood out--the large naked back of a Belgian soldier, who sat on the edge of his bed waiting to be washed. He must have been really the most cheerful and (comparatively) uninjured figure in the whole crowd, but he seemed the most pitiful, because of the sheer human insistence of his pathetic back. Over this back and over all that prostrate agony the enormous floriated bronze rings that carried the lights of the concert-hall hung from the ceiling in frightful, festive decoration. Miss ---- whispered: "One of them is dying. We can't save him." She seemed to regard this one as a positive slur on their record. I thought: "Only one--among all that crowd!" Mrs. Stobart came after us in some alarm as we ran down the garden. "What are you doing with Miss ----? You're not going to carry her off?" "No," I said, "we're not. She won't come." But we have got off with Dr. ----. Mrs. Stobart has refused the Commandant's offer of one of our best surgeons in exchange. He is a man. And this hospital is a Feminist Show. We dined in a great hurry in a big restaurant in one of the main streets. The restaurant was nearly empty and funereal black cloths were hung over the windows to obscure the lights.