“They are often like this,” said the officer’s wife, loosening the tight bonnet-strings. “Yesterday she said he’d been killed at Hooge. Are you sure you know your grave? It makes such a difference.” “Yes, thank you,” said Helen, and hurried out before the woman on the bed should begin to lament again. * * * * * Tea in a crowded mauve and blue striped wooden structure, with a false front, carried her still further into the nightmare. She paid her bill beside a stolid, plain-featured Englishwoman, who, hearing her inquire about the train to Hagenzeele, volunteered to come with her. “I’m going to Hagenzeele myself,” she explained. “Not to Hagenzeele Third; mine is Sugar Factory, but they call it La Rosière now. It’s just south of Hagenzeele Three. Have you got your room at the hotel there?” “Oh yes, thank you. I’ve wired.” “That’s better. Sometimes the place is quite full, and at others there’s hardly a soul. But they’ve put bathrooms into the old Lion d’Or--that’s the hotel on the west side of Sugar Factory--and it draws off a lot of people, luckily.” “It’s all new to me. This is the first time I’ve been over.” “Indeed! This is my ninth time since the Armistice. Not on my own account. _I_ haven’t lost any one, thank God--but, like every one else, I’ve a lot of friends at home who have. Coming over as often as I do, I find it helps them to have some one just look at the--the place and tell them about it afterwards. And one can take photos for them, too. I get quite a list of commissions to execute.” She laughed nervously and tapped her slung Kodak. “There are two or three to see at Sugar Factory this time, and plenty of others in the cemeteries all about. My system is to save them up, and arrange them, you know. And when I’ve got enough commissions for one area to make it worth while, I pop over and execute them. It _does_ comfort people.” “I suppose so,” Helen answered, shivering as they entered the little train. “Of course it does. (Isn’t it lucky we’ve got window-seats?) It must do or they wouldn’t ask one to do it, would they? I’ve a list of quite twelve or fifteen commissions here”--she tapped the Kodak again--“I must sort them out to-night. Oh, I forgot to ask you. What’s yours?” “My nephew,” said Helen. “But I was very fond of him.” “Ah yes! I sometimes wonder whether _they_ know after death? What do you think?” “Oh, I don’t--I haven’t dared to think much about that sort of thing,” said Helen, almost lifting her hands to keep her off. “Perhaps that’s better,” the woman answered. “The sense of loss must be enough, I expect. Well, I won’t worry you any more.”