he consequence, and catch
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here."

But that it cannot be. Blows have their consequences, immediate and
remote. You first, and then your memory, will be stained to all
generations by this deed of treachery and blood. How have you excused
it? "With necessity, the tyrant's plea." You had to hack your way
through, you said, and it was on my people that your battle-axe fell. So
when Louvain was burnt and its inhabitants were shot down you assured
the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES that your heart bled for what
"necessity" had forced you to do. President WILSON is a man of high
principles and deep feelings. I wonder how he looked and how he felt
when he read your whimpering appeal.

You have destroyed Belgium, but Belgium will rise again; and, even if
fate should ordain that Belgium is to be for ever wiped away, so long as
one Belgian is left alive there will be a heart to execrate you and a
voice to denounce your deeds.

ALBERT R.

* * * * *

THE SURPRISE.

A SEQUEL TO "THE CHOICE."

Mr. Julius Bannockburn hung up his hat with a bang and stepped angrily
into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bannockburn was comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with the
tea-table at her side and a fire blazing.

"That's right," she said placidly, ignoring her husband's very obvious
mental disarray,--"just in time for a cup of tea."

"No tea for me," he said darkly.

"Oh, yes. It'll do you good," she replied, and poured some out.

"By the way, how much do you give for this tea?" Mr. Bannockburn sharply
inquired.

"Two-and-eight," she replied.

He grunted. "I get excellent tea in the City which retails at two
shillings a pound," he said. "Better than this."

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bannockburn, "you don't often have this. This is
my tea. You prefer Indian."

"And why so many different kinds of cake?" Mr. Bannockburn went on.

"You wouldn't grudge me those?" she answered. "Surely, even with the
war, little things like that might go on?"

Mr. Bannockburn sent his eyes round the room on a tour of critical
exploration.

"Yes," he continued, "and how can you do with a fire--at any rate such a
fire--on a day like this? The room is like an oven." He scowled
murderously at the innocent flames and opened the window.

"I felt distinctly chilly," said Mrs. Bannockburn. "Besides, a fire is
so much more cheerful."

"Che