About 8.30 this morning, after our mess had been straightened up, I was _en route_ for the hospital, carrying a pot of coffee to the doctors and nurses, when some soldiers passed me, carrying a rough litter bearing Captain Strouts, mortally wounded. It was especially shocking to me to see him thus, as he had breakfasted with us at seven o’clock, and had seemed tired from his constant work, but hopeful and in good spirits. His arm was hanging limp, the hands and fingers stiff with agony. It seemed but a moment before that I had passed him at breakfast a cup of black coffee, to receive which he had held out that strong, slim hand, with the signet-ring on the little finger, and now it was all so changed. In less than two hours the hand was again being held out, but in his death-throes. He had been shot while going over to the Fu with Colonel Shiba and Dr. Morrison, to decide on some new plan of defence for that much-fought-over district, where the firing was constant. Dr. Morrison was hit at the same time, but not seriously, and the little Colonel had his cap shot off his head by two bullets. These two wounded men were carried to the hospital, where Captain Strouts was attended to; but Dr. Morrison, owing to the great press of work, had to wait for some hours, nursing the exquisite agony of his wound, until his turn arrived. Poor Captain Strouts, with a cut artery in the thigh, only lived four hours, and died while asleep. He was so very, very tired. His work had been almost continuous night and day since he arrived from Tien-tsin, and especially hard, since he had to share the work and responsibility which necessarily fell on him by the death of so many officers. His death was very much felt by everyone. Dr. Morrison and Captain Strouts were frequent members of our mess, and in one day to have two leave thus—one wounded and one killed! Mrs. Squiers and I asked each other, “Who next?”