All the waters along the coast are infested with the German U-boats. Last week the little English packet, running between Saint-Malo and Southampton, was torpedoed ten miles off the Isle of Wight. Only the captain and four others, who happened to be on deck, were saved by clinging to wreckage. All the crew, the two stewardesses, and the cabin boys were drowned before they could reach the deck. We knew them well, these courageous people who have so often made the journey since the war began, and now they are lying under these green waters, martyrs to their duty. The submarines take weekly toll, but no names are mentioned in the papers, only the total amount of tonnage lost each week. So, added to the horror of the war, is the horror of the sea. In many a little home along the coast, the wife and mother waits for the man who will never return. At Paimpel, seventy-five miles away, sixty-six out of the seventy anti-bellum fishing smacks have been sunk. What it means to the poor fishing folk can be better imagined than described. Four or five families would often put the savings of a generation into a fishing boat, and the whole population of many villages lived entirely off the product of the sea. Naturally, their poverty is great, and they don't know where to look for help. As one sits on the rocks, looking at the beautiful turquoise ocean with the great space of radiant blue above, and the coast-line stretching away for miles into the hazy distance, it is hard to realize that beneath these sunny waters, perhaps a mile or two away, lurks that hideous instrument of death, the German submarine. One cannot deny their presence—they make themselves too often conspicuous. Ten days ago, a British transport was torpedoed and went down off Jersey, about fifty miles from here. Every once in a while a French destroyer comes into Saint-Malo harbor, or a military balloon mounts guard in the translucent air. A story was told recently which bears out these facts, but I don't believe, myself, that it is possible. During the high spring tides we had this month of March, the sea went out on the ebb to a great distance, leaving exposed many rocky islets and long sandy beaches. One small island has deep water on one side, where a U-boat could be safely hidden, and a sandy stretch to the landward side forms an ideal harbor. The story runs that a few days ago two well-dressed men walked into a little country inn, in a small village, ordered a lunch of young vegetables, chicken, cigars and liqueurs. Smiling pleasantly over their meal, before leaving, they called for paper and ink. They paid for their food in French money, and left a note for the Sous-Préfet of Saint-Malo. Imagine that official's chagrin, on opening it, to find the following: "Monsieur le Sous-Préfet—We had an excellent lunch and wish to state that we perceive you still eat well in France. "Captain Fritz. "Lieut. Johann. "U-boat off Brittany, March, 1918."