RUSHING THE MAILS THROUGH Conventionality dies an easy death in time of war. Erezée is new to me, but in less than half an hour I have talked to more people than I do in England in a twelve-month. They all have the same tale to tell of sleepless nights, of ever-present horror at what may be at any moment. But so far they have been spared atrocities. There is a sudden scuttle of every able-bodied person in the direction of the post office. The long-awaited post is in. An enterprising postman, “_en vélo_,” who has rushed them through is congratulated on every side. A crowd surges round the open window, stretching out eager hands to the clerks who are swiftly sorting the numerous piles of letters. The counter has long been appropriated by wrinkled peasants whose one anxiety is for news of the husbands and brothers who are so gallantly fighting for their rights at Liège. Someone tears off a wrapper. The thin broad sheets of a Brussels evening paper flutter in the breeze. Old men and women, young boys and girls gather round the owner with uplifted, expectant faces. Some do not know how to read, others have their eyes too full of tears. Besides, good news is so much more convincing when read aloud. The audience listens entranced. The gallantry of these Belgian troops—peasants like themselves—their valour is almost past belief! The work-worn, tired, rough-hewn faces turn to meet each other transfigured into beauty by their mutual look of pride.... We cannot, dare not wait to hear it all. The Uhlans may be here at any moment. I climb into the high dog-cart. The _dépêches_ are put under the seat, even under my feet. I sit on a heap of them.... So does my companion. They are for Vaux Chavannes, Grand-Mesnil, all the little villages around, extending to Aywaille, twenty kilomètres away. Carefully masking every sign of paper with a thick blue rug, we start off on the homeward journey. Not without tremors, for if we fall into the Uhlan hands anything may happen. When we pass the last of the little cottages, and the last watching peasant has waved us farewell, I begin to fear. Six solid miles of thick woods stretch before us rolling down to the roadside on either hand. Here it was they caught the _facteur_ yesterday. I suddenly loathe the sight of those green, feathery branches; they may cover up so much. I glance at M. A——. His round happy face is rounder and happier than usual. He is even lighting a cigarette, though he finds it difficult, as he is trying to hold the reins and watch the horse and the woods at the same time. Never have I seen an Ardennois without a pipe or cigarette in his mouth. I think a true son of the soil would start to light one with the death-rattle in his throat! I imagine a dreaded Prussian behind every tree-trunk and under every bush for some miles. Then I clear my throat and ask mildly as we jog along (it would look suspicious to increase our pace):