At the grand casino one's heart is torn by the sight of such suffering supported so uncomplainingly. A large hall is hastily arranged with cane-bottomed chairs, in front of each a tin basin, hot water in cans (heated on a gas stove) is poured into these primitive receptacles, and ladies of the Croix Rouge kneel in front of these rough wounded men. It is hard work, sometimes, to separate the heavy army boots from the wounded feet. Some of these men have not had their boots off in two months; constantly marching to and fro over those fields and through the mud, ready at any moment to spring to arms to defend us and our homes. It is the least we can do, to help their pain now. The blood has soaked through the worn-out socks, and the whole mass is impregnated with dirt, blood, etc.; but how grateful they are, these poilus, to have their wounds dressed, their torn, dirty uniforms removed, and to find themselves in comfortable beds, a soothing drink of beef tea, with a dash of brandy held to their lips, and a soft pillow behind their weary heads. One boy said to me, as we finally got him in bed: "Madam, one goes gladly to fight for la France, but now, I must rest awhile. With such kind ladies to aid me, I know I shall soon gain strength enough to return to show those Boches." What la Jeunesse Française is willing to bear for France! October, 1914 DINARD DAY BY DAY [Illustration: Funeral Oraison—In the Cemetery] Up the village street comes the funeral. Gusts of wind, bearing fog and rain on their wings, roar up the roadway, tossing the branches against the low sky, tearing the last Autumn leaves from the trees, whirling the skirts of the women and the white garments of the priest, as the mournful little band struggles towards the church. The bell is tolling in long, heavy notes; the funeral cars, alas! three in number, move slowly along; the "tricolor," wet and draggled, whipping above the heads of the little troopers who have lain down their lives that it may float free and unsubdued over France. What a sad little procession it is! First, a chorister bearing a cross; then two others chanting, with the priest, the dirge for the dead. On either side of the three hearses limp a few soldiers, their red trousers the only spot of color in the black and gray landscape. A group of the Red Cross nurses follow, their dark cloaks and white head-dresses straining in the gale, and then the crowd of sorrowing people. Poor, humble folk they are, in sabots and heavy black peasant costumes. Old women tottering along together, bending their white-coiffed heads to the blast. Young women, white and broken-hearted. Tragedy written in changeless lines on their faces, innocent victims of this unspeakable war, bearing their last poor little offerings in their red hands, a few rain-beaten bunches of chrysanthemums, the only tribute they can offer to their dear ones.