I was off at 5 P.M., and went to dig out Marie Therese from my old billet, to come with me to Beuvry, the village about two and a half miles away that was shelled last week; it is about half-way to the trenches from here. It was a lovely sunsetty evening, and there was a huge stretch of view, but it was not clear enough to make anything out of the German line. She has a tante and a grandmere there, and has a "_laisser-passer soigner une tante malade_" which she has to show to the sentry at the bridge. I get through without. The tante is not at all _malade_--she is a cheery old lady who met us on the road. M.T. pointed me out all the shell holes. We met and passed an unending stream of khaki, the men marching back from their four days in the trenches, infant officers and all steadily trudging on with the same coating of mud from head to foot, packs and rifles carried anyhow, and the Trench Look, which can never be described, and which is grim to the last degree. Each lot had a tail of limping stragglers in ones and twos and threes. I talked to some of these, and they said they'd had a very "rough" night last night--pouring rain--water up to their knees, and standing to all night expecting an attack which didn't come off; but some mines had been exploded meant for their trench, but luckily they were ten yards out in their calculations, and they only got smothered instead of blown to bits. And they were sticking all this while we were snoring in our horrible, warm, soft beds only a few miles away. We went on past some of the famous brick stacks through the funny little village full of billets to the church, where le Salut was going on. We passed a dressing station of No.-- Field Ambulance. The grandmere had two sergeants billeted with her who seemed pleased to have a friendly chat. Some of the men I said good-night to were so surprised (not knowing our grey coat and hat), I heard them say to each other "English!" Marie Therese simply adores the _Anglais_--they are so _gais_, such _bon courage_, they laugh always and sing--and they have "_beaucoup de fiancees francaises pour passer le temps_!" She told me they had yesterday a boy of eighteen who was always _triste_, but _bien poli_, and he knows six languages and comes from the University of London. When he left for the trenches he said, "_Je vais a la mort_," but he has promised to come and see them on Saturday or Sunday, "_s'il n'est pas mort, ou blesse_," she said, as an afterthought. Her own young man is _a la Guerre_, and she is making her trousseau. They do beautiful embroidery on linen. I was pretty tired when we got back at 8 o'clock, as it was a good five-mile walk, part of the way on fiendish cobble-stones, and we are on our feet all day at the Dressing Station. But I am very fit, and all the better for the excellent fresh food we have here. No more tins of anything, thank goodness!