On the following Saturday the children came to visit us. We saw them enter the courtyard on their way to apply for a permit to see us. As they waited we hailed them from the window. Two soldiers immediately rushed from the office and addressed us with bitter invective because we had dared to speak to our own children and because the children had been “audacious” enough to speak to us! What a terrible provocation that children should exchange greetings with their parents! The children were cavalierly ejected from the courtyard and we saw them no more that day. But on the following morning, by special permission, they were allowed to speak for a few minutes with us. The same day, at noon, the major visited us in our room, transformed into a jail cell. His face was gloomy. His whole bearing betrayed much anxiety and uneasiness. He brought us bad news. “I am desolate,” he said again. “I am heart-broken, but Mr. Beland must leave to-day without fail for Germany.” Imagine the dismay of my wife and of myself at this abrupt announcement! I ventured to protest. I reminded the major of the assurances he had previously given me. I repeated to him that in my quality as a physician I ought not to be deprived of my liberty. I asked him why was it that the competent authorities at Berlin had not been informed of the medical services I had been rendering at the hospital and to the civil population since the beginning of the war? Altogether I made a very strong plea in protest against the execution of the latest order. Perturbed and embarrassed the major mumbled some sort of an explanation. The instructions had “come from someone higher in authority than himself”; he had “tried to explain my case to them,” but they “would not hear him”; “all the British subjects in Germany and occupied territory were to be interned without delay.” The major assumed an air of haughtiness I had not noticed hitherto. “At two o’clock this afternoon you will have to depart,” he said. “A non-commissioned officer will accompany you to Berlin and thence to Ruhleben.” Ruhleben is the internment camp for civilians of British nationality. The shadow of a very real sorrow pervaded that room. I did not know what to say. Two hours only remained in which my wife and I might be together. She persisted in her entreaties that she might bear me company to Germany, only to meet with an absolute refusal every time. The Major had the delicacy (?) to inform her that her company, even to the station merely, was not desirable! Punctually at two o’clock on June 6 a non-commissioned officer stood in the room to which during the past three days we had become reconciled, as to a new little home where the children, living only a few miles away, might visit us once or twice a week. All was declared ready for my departure. It was a solemn moment, and profoundly sad. My wife and I were separated. I did not know then–and it was perhaps better–that I should never see her again in this world.