How many sad hearts are in France this night of the Jour des Morts (All Soul's Day), in this third dolorous year of the Great War? All over the country, from earliest hours, thousands upon thousands of black-clad mourners have placed their homage of respect and love on the tombs of those who have died in the past twelve months. Churches held constant services, chants and prayers rose in unbroken succession; bells tolled, people flocked to the cemeteries; everywhere the "soul of the French" has been in communion with its dead and this great national and religious festival has been observed as never before. In Paris and its suburbs nearly a million accomplished this sacred duty. Every town and village was filled with sorrowing throngs. Seeing all this desolation and sadness, one wonders how they can so steadfastly look forward to another year of war. When one remembers how many beautiful lives have been sacrificed in the last twelve months, how much of talent, art, intellect and science has been ruthlessly destroyed when these promising men died, does it seem strange that the whole nation has gone forth to honor their dead? How many young fellows, just leaving the Lycée thoroughly prepared by years of hard study to accomplish great things in their chosen profession, have been wounded, or killed, or maimed? What humanity has lost will never be known, but that the loss is stupendous is acknowledged by everyone. Each man and woman has someone to grieve for tonight. Countless young widows are facing the future, deprived forever of the companionship of their helpmates, some so young as to have had only a few months happiness. To how many childish eyes is shown (in tears and sorrow) the photograph of le pere mort pour la patrie (the father who died for his country). Poor little ones, they will never know his loving care, his solicitude for their welfare, his devoted protection. To them he will always be a wonderful heroic being, remote and impersonal, who cannot share their little pleasures and troubles, can never play with them or be their friend! The poor old fathers and mothers, how bent and tragic they are! All they cherished on earth has gone! Slowly and painfully they move amongst the be-flowered graves, and life holds no further happiness for them. Let me describe the procession as it passed on the way to the burying ground. First came the school children in two long files on either side of the boulevard, leaving the center free, the little boys walking two by two, clutching their sprays of chrysanthemums, gay and laughing as if on a frolic, but sobering suddenly when the teacher's eye veered in their direction; following them a hundred little girls, much more demure, stepping daintily, well clad, even the poorest putting on their best for this great national fete.