I dug them out
of a field we passed through after dark. No one saw me. My children were
crying with hunger and I had nothing to give them. So I dug up a handful
of potatoes in the dark. But God saw me and punished me. I cooked the
potatoes over a fire by the roadside, but He kept the heat from reaching
the inside of the potatoes. Two of my children sickened and died from
eating them. It was God's punishment. We buried them along the road. My
husband made the crosses out of wood and carved their names on them.
They lie way behind us now--unsung. But perhaps those who pass along the
road and see the crosses will offer up a prayer."

"I will burn candles for them," I said. "What were their names?"

"Sonia and Peter Kolpakova, your excellency. You are good. God bless
you!" And she kissed my hands.

I looked at the three children who were left. They sat in the cart
silently, surrounded by the incongruous collection of pots and pans, and
leaning against a painted chest. The chest was covered with dust, but
you could still see a bunch of bright-painted flowers behind the
children's heads.

"Poor little things," I said. "Are they cold?"

"It's hard on the children," the mother replied stolidly. "They can't
stand it as we can. We are used to trouble. We know what life is. But
the children--they are sick most of the time. They have no strength
left. What can we do for them? We have no medicines. Have you any
medicines?" she asked, with a sudden, hopeful glint in her dull,
wide-set eyes. "No?" Her face regained its impassivity.

Her husband straightened himself, grunting. He had finished tying the
broken wheel together with rope.

"Come, we must be moving. Hurry, or we'll be left behind," he said,
going to the little horse's head.

The woman climbed back into the cart and took the youngest child in her
arms. A feeble wail came from the dull-colored bundle. Her husband
turned the horse into the procession again.

Still the carts were coming over the hill, gray and dusty, with the
peasants and their wives walking beside the horses' heads. What a river
of suffering! What a smell came from it! And automobiles and tramways
rushed by.

Is this the twentieth century?

_October._

I delayed mailing my last letter, so I shall tell you about another
glimpse I've had of the refugees. Yesterday, as we sat drinking tea, we
heard the rumble and creak of heavy wagons outside the _pension_. The