.. We shall be so
comfortable. You see, you had some spare beds, after all."

"Oh, yes, we had. One can always manage somehow."

And she went off, shutting the door behind her.

And now B. and I thought of nothing but the luxury of sleeping in a
bed. How delightful it would be after our sleepless nights in the fogs
of the trenches!

But what was that noise resounding through the convent? What was that
knocking and those wailing cries? There was some one at the door,
hammering at the knocker, some one weeping and sobbing in the dark. I
opened my window, and leant out. But the front door had already been
opened, and a figure slipped in hurriedly. The sobs came up the stairs
to our door, and women's voices, Sister Gabrielle's voice, speaking
Flemish, then another voice, sounding like a death-rattle, trying in
vain to pronounce words through choking sobs. How horrible that
monotonous, inconsolable, continual wail was! It went on for a short
time, and then doors were opened and shut, the voices died away, and
suddenly the noise ceased.

B. had already got into bed, and, from under the sheets, he begged me,
in a voice muffled by the bed-clothes, to put the candle out quickly.
But I was haunted by that moaning, though I could not hear it any
longer. I wanted to know what tragedy had caused those sobs. I could
not doubt that the horrible war was at the bottom of it. And yet we
were a long way from the firing line. My curiosity overcame my
fatigue. I put on my jacket and went out, taking the candle with me. I
ran down the two staircases, and my footsteps seemed to wake dismal
echoes in the silent convent.

Just as I came to the hall Sister Gabrielle also arrived, with a small
lantern in her hand. I must have frightened her, for she started and
gave a little scream. But she soon recovered, and guessed what had
disturbed me. She told me all about it in a few simple sentences; a
poor woman had fled from her village, carrying her little girl of
eighteen months. As she was running distractedly along the road from
Lizerne to Boesinghe a German shell had fallen, and a fragment of it
had killed her baby in her arms. She had just come six kilometres in
the dark, clasping the little corpse to her breast in an agony of
despair. She got to Elverdinghe, and knocked at the door of the
convent, knowing that there she would find a refuge. And all along the
road she had passed convoys, relief troops and despatch-riders; but
she took no h