The letters they had received before she arrived were broken cries of amazed pity. "I cannot write of what I see," she had said. "Refugees fill the streets, coming from every direction, on foot, beside dog carts, on farm wagons piled high with all sorts of stuff. They are all so white and tired and bewildered--and they are so like the folks around home. It's the old people that break my heart. Somehow it seems more terrible for them than even the children, though they take it so quietly. We picked up an old woman of eighty to-day. She might have been old Mother Peters out at Cowder's Corners--never before in a great city--her son killed at Louvain--her daughter-in-law lost--nobody she knew--no money--a poor, wandering, helpless old soul. Of course we've found her a place and left money, but what is that?--she's alone and we're going and there are so many of them and the Germans are coming--what will they all do--what will they all do?"... On August 18th she wrote: "We're going, rushing away almost as the poor souls we've been helping rushed here. We're leaving them--I feel like a coward, but we're only in the way, after all. Nothing you can do counts." On August 22nd she had written from London after a flight of hardship and horrors: "We're here at last. I cannot believe that there is a place where people are safe, where they do not fly and starve. England after Belgium! It is so sweet, but it does not seem right. I cannot consent to be calm when just over there those dreadful things are happening. But every one here is working to care for the refugees that are coming in by the hundreds. You must not be surprised if I come home with an armful of Belgian orphans." A paragraph in a last letter aroused keen interest in Sabinsport when it was noised around. "At one of the stations for Belgian refugees I found Nancy Cowder. It was she who recognized me. I was giving my address, promising to raise money in America, when a girl standing near said, 'Did you say Sabinsport? It is your home? You are returning?' "'Yes,' I said. "'It is my home, too. I am Nancy Cowder. Will you tell my father you saw me, that I am well, and that he is not to be anxious?' "I was never so surprised. Why, Mother, she looks the very great lady. I know all of that hateful gossip about her is not true. It can't be. I've found out a lot about her here." "Trust Patsy for that," growled Ralph, when he and Dick read the letter. "She has heaps of friends and is staying with Lady Betty Barstow. She's been working day and night since the war began. At the Embassy an attaché told me she was about the most level-headed and really useful American woman he'd seen--'And beautiful and interesting and generous,' he added. This is another case where Sabinsport has been wrong." * * * * *