After the first convoy of wounded has been served, other wounded men come in from time to time, then about 4 o’clock there is another train-load.  At ten p.m. the largest convoy arrives.  The men seem too stiff to move, and many are carried in on soldiers’ backs.  The stretchers are laid on the floor, those who can “s’asseoir” sit on benches, and every man produces a “quart” or tin cup.  One and all they come out of the darkness and never look about them, but rouse themselves to get fed, and stretch out poor grimy hands for bread and steaming drinks.  There is very little light—­only one oil-lamp, which hangs from the roof, and burns dimly.  Under this we place the “marmites,” and all that I can see is one brown or black or wounded hand stretched out into the dim ring of light under the lamp, with a little tin mug held out for soup.  Wet and ragged, and covered with sticky mud, the wounded lie in the salle of the station, and, except under the lamp, it is all quite dark.  There are dim forms and frosty breaths, and a door which bangs continually, and then the train loads up, the wounded depart, and a heavy smell and an empty pot are all that remain.  We clean up the kitchen, and go home about 1 a.m.  I do the night work alone.

24 November.—­We are beginning to get into our stride, and the small kitchen turns out its gallons and buckets of liquid.  Mrs. ——­ has been helping me with my work.  It is good to see anyone so beautiful in the tiny kitchen, and it is quaint to see anyone so absolutely ignorant of how a pot is washed or a vegetable peeled.

I have a little electric lamp, which is a great comfort to me, as I have to walk home alone at midnight.  When I get up in the morning I have to remember all I shall want during the day, as the villa is a mile from the station, so I take my lantern out at 9.30 a.m.!

I saw a Belgian regiment march back to the trenches to-day.  They had a poor little band and some foggy instruments, and a bugler flourished a trumpet.  I stood by the roadside and cried till I couldn’t see.

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[Page Heading:  A LETTER HOME]

To Miss Mary King.

FURNES, BELGIUM,
27 November.

DEAR MARY,

You will like to know that I have a soup-kitchen at the station here, and I am up to my neck in soup.  I make it all day and a good bit of the night too, for the wounded are coming in all the time, and they are half frozen—­especially the black troops.  People are being so kind about the work I am doing, and they are all saying what a comfort the soup is to the men.  Sometimes I feed several hundreds in a day.

I am sure everyone will grieve to hear of the death of Lord Roberts, but I think he died just as he would wish to have died—­amongst his old troops, who loved him, and in the service of the King.  He was a fine soldier and a Christian gentleman, and you can’t say better of a man than that.