of
honey in the centre. "A specialty of the country," he said.

We talked of many things: of the attitude of America toward the war,
her incredulity as to atrocities, the German propaganda, and a rumour
that had reached the front of a German-Irish coalition in the House of
Representatives at Washington.

From that the talk drifted to uniforms. The Commandant wished that the
new French uniforms, instead of being a slaty blue, had been green,
for use in the spring fighting.

I criticised the new Belgian uniform, which seemed to me much thinner
than the old.

"That is wrong. It is of excellent cloth," said the General, and
brought his cape up under the lamp for examination.

The uniforms of three armies were at the table--the French, the
Belgian and the English. It was possible to compare them under the
light of a single lamp.

The General's cloak, in spite of my criticism, was the heaviest of the
three. But all of them seemed excellent. The material was like felt in
body, but much softer.

All of the officers were united in thinking khaki an excellent
all-round colour.

"The Turcos have been put into khaki," said the Commandant. "They
disliked it at first; but their other costumes were too conspicuous.
Now they are satisfied."

The Englishman offered the statement that England was supplying all of
the Allies, including Russia, with cloth.

Sitting round the table under the lamp, the Commandant read a postcard
taken from the body of a dead German in the attack the night before.
There was a photograph with it, autographed. The photograph was of the
woman who had written the card. It began "Beloved Otto," and was
signed "Your loving wife, Hedwig."

This is the postcard:

"_Beloved Otto_: To-day your dear cards came, so full of anxiety
for us. So that now at last I know that you have received my
letters. I was convinced you had not. We have sent you so many
packages of things you may need. Have you got any of them? To-day I
have sent you my photograph. I wished to send a letter also instead
of this card, but I have no writing paper. All week I have been
busy with the children's clothing. We think of you always, dear
Otto. Write to us often. Greetings from your Hedwig and the
children."

So she was making clothing for the children and sending him little
packages. And Otto lay dead under the stars that night--dead of an
ideal, which is that a man must leave his fam