In the evening, when I went to the station, another knickerbockered lady sat there!  I told her our difficulties, but allowed her to do a little work rather than hurt her feelings.  The following day Miss ——­ engaged in deadly conflict with the lady who had sent our unwelcome visitors.  Over the scene we will draw a veil, but we never saw the knickerbockered ladies again!

31 December, 1914.—­The last day of this bad old year.  I feel quite thankful for the summer I had at the Grange.  It has been something to look back upon all the time I have been here; the pergolas of pink roses, the sleepy fields, the dear people who used to come and stay with me, and all the fun and pleasure of it, help one a good deal now.

Yesterday was a fine day in the middle of weeks of rain.  When I came down to breakfast in the Joos’ little kitchen I remarked, of course, on the beauty of the weather.  “What a day for Taubes!” said Monsieur Max, looking up at the clear blue sky.  Before I had left home there was a shell in a street close by, and one heard that already these horrible birds of prey had been at work, and had thrown two bombs, which destroyed two houses in the Rue des Trefles.  The pigeons that circle round the old buildings in Furnes always seem to see the Taubes first, as if they knew by sight their hateful brothers.  They flutter disturbed from roof and turret, and then, with a flash of white wings, they fly far away.  I often wish I had wings when I see them.

I went to the station, and then to the hospital for slippers for some wounded men.  Five aeroplanes were overhead—­Allies’ and German—­and there was a good deal of firing.  I was struck by the fact that the night before I had seen exactly this scene in a dream.  Second sight always gives me much to think about.  The inevitableness of things seems much accentuated by it.  In my dream I stood by the other people in the yard looking at the war in the air, and watching the circling aeroplanes and the bursts of smoke.

At the station there was a nasty feeling that something was going to happen.  The Taubes wheeled about and hovered in the blue.  I went to the hospital for lunch, and afterwards I asked Mr. Bevan to come to the station to look at some wounded whose dressings had not been touched for too long.  He said he would come in half an hour, so I said I wouldn’t wait, as he knew exactly where to find the men, and I came back to the Villa for my rest.  As I walked home I heard that the station had been shelled, and I met one of the Belgian Sisters and told her not to go on duty till after dark, but I had no idea till evening came of what had happened.  Ten shells burst in or round the station.  Men, women, and children were killed.  They tell me that limbs were flying, and a French chauffeur, who came on here, picked up a man’s leg in the street.  Mr. Bevan sent up word to say none of us was to go to the station for the present.