We reached Chalons on the Marne at 10 o'clock on the evening of October 8th, after a busy and most interesting day. We were quartered here for the night and remained part of the next morning. During our stay we could hear the booming of guns continuously, and saw many evidences of military occupation. At this time the Germans had been forced back about thirty miles from Chalons on the Marne, and their shells were no longer feared in this immediate vicinity. The cannon we heard along the greater portion of the route after passing Bar Le Duc must have been French guns, although the German big guns can be heard for fifty miles under favorable circumstances. At Chalons on the Marne an incident occurred which made a deep impression on me, although it was in itself simple enough. It was my custom to go about much seeking to see whatever was to be seen at all of our stops. Usually I had a companion, but sometimes went alone. On this occasion Mr. Warren, of the Commission, was with me. We had entered the Cathedral of Notre Dame, to inspect its interior and arrived just as a funeral service was ending. It was one of those pathetic funerals, now common enough in France, at which the body is not present, in this case being that of a young man killed in the army and evidently an only son. The services ended with a procession around the church and this brought the mourners to where we were. We fell in with them, this being our natural impulse and also, we believed, the proper and courteous thing to do, rather than to rudely retire. When the party reached the main aisle, the friends gathered around the father and mother and two daughters, weeping with them and kissing them in the demonstrative way the French have of showing both grief and affection. Before we knew just what to do, the mourners melted away, taking with them the mother and daughters. Mr. Warren also had disappeared and I was left practically alone with the father of the dead boy. He approached me and extended his hand, having perhaps read in my face something of my feelings. He knew no English and I knew no French, but the language of human sympathy is universal. We grasped hands and the only word uttered was my crude "Americaine." None other was needed. I could tell by the pressure of the hand holding mine that my sympathy was appreciated, even though I was from across the seas and an utter stranger, and any doubts I had felt about the propriety of remaining were thoroughly dispelled. [Illustration: German Trenches Captured by the French.]