tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">A SOLITARY WALK
XXXVII.  ENTER LES ALLEMANDS
XXXVIII.  "MY SON!"
XXXIX.  THE RECEPTION
XL.  THE LAUGHTER OF BRUTES
XLI.  TRAITORS
XLII.  WHAT THE WAITING MAID SAW
XLIII.  SATURDAY
XLIV.  CAN I TRUST THEM?
XLV.  A SAFE SHELTER
XLVI.  THE FLIGHT INTO HOLLAND
XLVII.  FRIENDLY HOLLAND
XLVIII.  FRENCH COOKING IN WAR TIME
XLIX.  THE FIGHT IN THE AIR
L.  THE WAR BRIDE
LI.  A LUCKY MEETING
LII.  THE RAVENING WOLF
LIII.  BACK TO LONDON

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE AUTHOR Frontispiece
AN ORDER FROM THE BELGIAN WAR OFFICE
A FRIENDLY CHAT
PASSPORT FROM THE AUSTRALIAN HIGH COMMISSIONER
THE AMERICAN SAFEGUARD
A SPECIAL PERMIT
BELGIAN REFUGEES IN HOLLAND
THE DANISH DOCTOR'S NOTE
MY HOSTS IN HOLLAND
SOUP FOR THE REFUGEES
PERMIT TO DUNKIRK
SKETCH MAP OF BELGIUM

A WOMAN'S EXPERIENCES IN THE GREAT WAR

CHAPTER I

CROSSING THE CHANNEL

"What do you do for mines?"

I put the question to the dear old salt at Folkestone quay, as I am waiting to go on board the boat for Belgium, this burning August night.

The dear old salt thinks hard for an answer, very hard indeed.

Then he scratches his head.

"There ain't none!" he makes reply.

All the same, in spite of the dear old salt, I feel rather creepy as the boat starts off that hot summer night, and through the pitch-black darkness we begin to plough our way to Ostend.

Over the dark waters the old English battleships send their vivid flashes unceasingly, but it is not a comfortable feeling to think you may be blown up at any minute, and I spend the hours on deck.

I notice our little fair-bearded Belgian captain is looking very sad and dejected.

"They're saying in Belgium now that our poor soldiers are getting all the brunt of it," he says despondently to a group of sympathetic War-Correspondents gathered round him on deck, chattering, and trying to pick up bits of news.

"But that will all be made up," says Mr. Martin Donohue, the Australian War-Correspondent, who is among the crowd. "All that you lose will be given back to Belgium before long."

"But they cannot give us back our dead," the little captain answers dully.

And no one makes reply to that.

There is no reply to make.

It is four o'clock in the morning, instead of nine at night, when we get to Ostend at last, and the first red gleams of sunrise are already flashing in the east.

We leave the boat, cross the Customs, and, after much