t of foolish, sticky, burdensome, contemptible things. These
heroes do "rise," and we "rise" with them. Could Christ himself desire a
better resurrection?

[Page Heading: LARKS]

_28 May._--I am busy getting things prepared for going home--my lecture,
two articles, etc. I did not go to the station to-day, but worked till 3
o'clock, and then walked over to St. Idesbald. How I wish I could have
been out-of-doors more since I came here. It is such a wonderful
country, all sky. No wonder there are painters in Belgium. During the
winter it was too wet to see much, and I was always in the kitchen, but
now I could kiss the very ground with the little roses on it amongst the
Dunes. Larks sing at St. Idesbald, and nightingales. Some fine night I
mean to walk out there and listen.

_29 May._--To-day, according to promise, Mr. Bevan took me into
Nieuport. It was very difficult to get permission to go there, but Mr.
Bevan got it from the British Mission on the plea that I was going to
give lectures at home.

"The worst of going to Nieuport," said Major Tyrell, "is that you won't
be likely to see home again."

Mr. Bevan called at 10 o'clock with the faithful MacEwan, and we went
first to the Cabour hospital, which I always like so much, and where the
large pleasure-grounds make things healthy and quiet for the patients.
Then we had a tyre out of order, so had to go on to Dunkirk, where I met
Mr. Sarrel and his friend Mr. Hanson--Vice-Consul at Constantinople--and
they lunched with us while the car was being doctored.

At last we started towards Nieuport, but before we got there we found a
motor-car in a ditch, and its owner with a cut on his head and his arm
broken, so we had to pick him up and take him to Coxide. It was a clear,
bright day, with all the trees swishing the sky, and Mr. Bevan and
MacEwan did nothing all the time but tell me how dangerous it was, and
they pointed out every place on the road where they had picked up dead
men or found people blown to pieces. This was lively for me, and the
amusing part of it was that I think they did it from a belated sense of
responsibility.

It is as difficult to find words to describe Nieuport as it is to talk
of metaphysics in slang. The words don't seem invented that will convey
that haunting sense of desolation, that supreme quiet under the shock of
continually firing guns. Hardly anything is left now of the little
homely bits that, when I saw the place last autumn, remind