Away home in England or in the Colonies of that Kingdom live men and women who, despite reading, report and record, cannot picture the life which was lived by these men. The limit of suffering overpassed, nothing but their imperturbable endurance nerved them to the work which was theirs. For those who live so far away, the sight of these trenches even at a distance would raise a feeling of discomfort, to walk through these lines of mud would cause them no end of torture, mental and physical, to stay there for a day would be horrible, but to fight there in rain and snow and shell fire would be superlative in its ghastliness. Yet far away from these scenes, removed from all the agony war entails, it has been reported of some that they calmly sit down in their comfortable rooms and with smug pens and righteous speech protest against the little tot of rum which is issued now and again to the gallant soldiers who stand against the enemy, guarding the Empire which that enemy has set out to assail. Heaven send that this war waged against the foe without may help a little to cripple the smug intolerance that dwells within! It was through the beaten land, on the road that runs from Amiens to Peronne that our car sped. Scarcely a soul was in sight, though now and again we could see refugees returning to the homes which once were theirs. We passed a woman and two children, the former dressed very neatly, with a mutch cap on her head and an umbrella under her arm. A mother and her loved ones, probably going back to the home they had known in days of peace. A few miles out from Amiens we saw an old man ambling painfully along in front of us, now and again coming to a halt and looking round him, taking stock of the country through which he was passing. Hearing the car following him he turned and looked at us. He was a very old man, his beard white; he carried a stick in his hand and held a bundle under his arm. As the car came close to him it stopped and the driver inquired of the man where he was going. "To Villars-Carbonnel," said the man, putting his stick under the arm that held the bundle, and rubbing his whiskers with the free hand. "Your own village?" asked the driver. "Yes, sir." "Come inside and I'll drive you there," said the driver. "No, thank you," said the man. "I prefer to walk. I'm near there. Villars-Carbonnel is round the corner."