"I had a letter from Mr. Blake this morning, and I think you'll like to read it, Anna! He speaks in it so kindly of some German soldiers who gave themselves up. I haven't time to stop and read it to you now. But I think you can read it, for he writes very, very clearly. This is where it begins----" she pointed half-way down the first sheet. "I shan't be back till eight o'clock. There's a great deal to do if, as Sir Jacques believes, some wounded are really likely to arrive to-morrow." Her face shadowed, and that of the old woman looking fondly up at her, softened. "There's a little piece of beautiful cold mutton," exclaimed Anna in German. "Would my darling child like that for her supper--with a nice little potato salad as well?" But Rose shook her head. "No, I don't feel as if I want any meat. I'll have anything else there is, and some fruit." A moment later she was gone, and Anna turned to the closely-written sheets of paper with great interest. She read English writing with difficulty, but, as her beloved young lady had said truly, Mr. Blake's handwriting was very clear. And this is what she spelled out: "A great big motor lorry came up, full of prisoners, and our fellows soon crowded round it. They were fine, upstanding, fair men, and looked very tired and depressed--as well they might, for we hear they've had hardly anything to eat this last week! I offered one of them, who had his arm bound up, a cigarette. He took it rather eagerly. I thought I'd smoke one too, to put him at his ease, but I had no matches, so the poor chap hooked out some from his pocket and offered me one. This is a funny world, Rose! Fancy those thirteen German prisoners in that motor lorry, and that they were once--in fact only an hour or so ago--doing their best to kill us, while now we are doing our best to cheer them up. Then to-morrow we shall go out and have a good try at killing their comrades. Mind you, they look quite ordinary people. Not one of them has a terrible or a brutal face. They look just like our men--in fact rather less soldierly than our men; the sort of chaps you might see walking along a street in Witanbury any day. One of them looked so rosy and sunburnt, so _English_, that we mentioned it to the interpreter. He translated it to the man, and I couldn't help being amused to see that he looked rather sick at being told he looked like an Englishman. Another man, who I'm bound to say did not look English at all, had actually lived sixteen years in London, and he talked in quite a Cockney way." Anna read on: