Some of the very old and very weak are given supplementary tickets which entitle them to small portions of white bread, more adapted to their needs than the stern war bread of the C. R. B.; and every two days mothers are allowed additional bread for their children. One curly-haired little girl was following her mother and grandmother, and slipt out of the line to offer a tiny hand. Then came a tall, distinguished-looking man, about whom the directors knew little—except that he was absolutely without funds. They put kindly questions to the poor hunchback, who had just returned to the line from the hospital, and congratulated the pretty girl of fifteen, who had won all the term’s prizes in the communal school. There were those who had never succeeded; then there were those who two years before had been comfortable—railway employees, artists, men and women, young and old, in endless procession, a large proportion in carpet slippers, or other substitutes for leather shoes. Many were weak and ill-looking; all wore the stamp of war. Every day they must come for the pint of soup and the bread that meant life—200,000 in Brussels alone; in Belgium one and a half million! These are the lowest in the scale of misery—those who “must have a supplement of protein,” for meat never passes their lips but in soup. The questions were always swift, admitting no delay in the reply, and knowing the hearts of the questioners, I wondered a little at this. Till in a flash I saw: if the directors wished to know more they would go to the homes represented—but the line must not be held back! Every ten minutes’ halt means that those outside in the rain must stand ten minutes longer. On this particular day the committee put through a line representing 2,500 pints of soup and portions of bread in fifty minutes, an almost incredible efficiency, especially when you remember that every card is examined and stamped as well as every pitiful pitcher and string bag filled. That day a woman who had not before served on the soupes offered her services to the seasoned workers. They were grateful, but smilingly advised her to go home, fill her bath tub with water, and ladle it out—to repeat this the following day and the following, until finally she might return, ready to endure the work, and above all, not to retard the “Line” five unnecessary minutes! Two and a half years have not dulled the tenderness of these women toward the wretched ones they serve. AT HOME Belgium is small. Until now I had been able to go and return in the same day. But on this particular evening I found myself too far south to get back. I was in a thickly forested, sparsely settled district, but I knew that farther on there was a great château belonging to the family of A., with numerous spare rooms. Tho I had been in Belgium only a short time I had already learned how unmeasured is the friendship offered us, but I also knew that Belgian etiquette and convention were extremely rigorous, and I hesitated.