The cold, dreary winter had blossomed forth into glorious spring-tide, when again I came to S----. The old town had not changed much; if anything it was sleepier and drearier than ever. My first visit was to the little corner house by the great stone church; but the little corner house was no more, in its place was a pile of shattered masonry. With vague misgivings I sought M. le Maire, and found him in his stuffy, dingy little office in the Hôtel de Ville. He was poring over some musty documents as I entered, but immediately left them to shake me effusively by the hand. “But where is Père Dreyfus?” I demanded of him. Where? He gave that impressive shrug of the shoulders peculiar to the Latin, and rolled his eyes meaningly towards the heavens. “Dead?” I exclaimed. “How did he die?” “Ze airplanes,” he replied; “how you call them? Ze flying machines come one night, and drop a bomb. When I go search in ze morning, ze worthy Father is no more.” Thus briefly, in as many words he recounted another tragedy of this awful war. Fortune is, indeed, a fickle jade. It had been her will that.... But there, the story is best told in the worthy Father’s own words. I quote extracts from a little diary that it was his habit to keep, and which was all that now remained to enable us to glean a true glimpse of the old Father’s personal feelings in the matter. _Monday._--The incessant thunder of heavy artillery the whole night long. Thus it has been for the past fourteen months, night after night without a break. I notice it no longer; it has become part and parcel of my everyday existence. Up at ---- yesterday those devils shot Meurice. For what reason I have not yet heard. I wonder what has become of his wife and two children? God help them if they are in their hands! Yesterday as I walked from ---- I noticed high up in the sky three black specks coming over in a north-easterly direction. Our soldiers said they were German aeroplanes, but they passed away again without attempting to drop any bombs. It is not these things that we fear, but those fiendish 17-inch shells, which come over sometimes in the middle of the night and tear away a street of houses, killing, wounding, maiming. Unhappy Belgium.