Lovely weather it was. The girl said you would hardly realize there was war, sometimes. The gardener would go out and straighten the trampled flowers. The carts of wounded would pass regularly, stopping occasionally for water or tea. They would say the fighting had passed on. And then, suddenly, the crack and boom would approach again, shaking the house walls--the little uncurling puffs of smoke against the blue sky--the gray-blue uniformed Austrians hurrying past in retreat. No carts of wounded any more. There was too much hurry to bother about the wounded. Russians in possession again, and Russian instead of Austrian officers quartered at their house. How much more polite the Russians were--so much more gallant and kind-hearted! They didn't treat you as though you were a servant--"Do this. Do that." They brought some of their wounded to the farm, and Miss Morowski helped nurse them. But at last the father and daughter had been obliged to leave with the Russians. How furious the Russians had been--so depressed and discouraged when the order came to retreat. There had been no fighting round there for several days, and suddenly the news came that the whole army was retreating. Why? They said there was no ammunition. So the father and daughter left their property in the care of the gardener and his wife, who were too old to move. How terrible it had been to abandon this ground that so many Russians had died to win! No ammunition. Waste--mismanagement--graft. Those in Petrograd should think more of their country and less of their own pockets. The unquestioning courage of the simple Russian soldiers! Every one ready to die--and yet nothing to back them up. It was disheartening. "The Russians gave us a place in a cart, and we left in utter confusion--soldiers, motor-cars, cattle, wounded, with the Austrian cannon rumbling behind us." "Were you frightened?" I asked. We were speaking French together. "Not so frightened as sad. I was leaving my home. All my life I had spent there excepting for a few weeks in the winter when mother used to take us to Cracow for the balls. I hated to leave my beautiful party dresses hanging up in the closets. I know some Austrian woman will wear them. And I can't bear to think of our house burned! We have had such jolly times there, hunting and riding and visiting the neighbors. You don't know life on a Polish estate, do you? I can tell you there is nothing so charming in the world." Pan Morowski is a handsome, full-blooded man, and plays bridge all day either in the _pension_ drawing-room or at the club.