lower, great masses of them,
stretched for miles and miles. The sky a pure dark blue, and the whole
air, up to a height of about forty feet, thick with white butterflies:
your clothes were covered with butterflies. It was like an enchanted
land; but in the place of fairies there were thousands of little white
crosses, marked "Unknown British Soldier," for the most part. (Later,
all these bodies were taken up and nearly all were identified and
re-buried in Army cemeteries.) Through the masses of white
butterflies, blue dragon-flies darted about; high up the larks sang;
higher still the aeroplanes droned. Everything shimmered in the heat.
Clothes, guns, all that had been left in confusion when the war passed
on, had now been baked by the sun into one wonderful combination of
colour--white, pale grey and pale gold. The only dark colours were the
deep red bronze of the "wire" and one black cat which lived in a
shelter in what once was the main street of Thiepval. It was strange,
this black cat living there all alone. No humans, or those of her own (p. 037)
species, lived within miles of her. It took me days to make friends
and get her to come to me; and when at last I succeeded, the
friendship did not last long. No matter where I worked round that
district, the black cat of Thiepval would find me, and would approach
silently, and would suddenly jump on my knees and dig all her long
nails deeply into my flesh, with affection. I stood it for a little
time, and then gave her a good smack, after which I never saw my
little black friend again.

[Illustration: XIII. _German Prisoners._]

Thiepval Chateau, one of the largest in the north of France, was
practically flattened. What little mound was left was covered with
flowers. Some bricks had been collected from it and marked the grave
of "An Unknown British Soldier." Even Albert, that deadly
uninteresting little town, looked almost beautiful and cheerful.
Flowers grew by the sides of the streets; roses were abundant in what
were once back-gardens; a hut was up at the corner by the Cathedral
and _Daily Mails_ were sold there every evening at four o'clock, and
the golden leaning Lady holding her Baby, looking down towards the
street, gleamed in the sun on top of the Cathedral tower.

A family had come back from Corbie and re-started their restaurant--a
father and three charming girls. They patched up the little house by
the station and did a roaring trade, and some few other fam