lue
sky--the gray-blue uniformed Austrians hurrying past in retreat. No
carts of wounded any more. There was too much hurry to bother about the
wounded.

Russians in possession again, and Russian instead of Austrian officers
quartered at their house. How much more polite the Russians were--so
much more gallant and kind-hearted! They didn't treat you as though you
were a servant--"Do this. Do that." They brought some of their wounded
to the farm, and Miss Morowski helped nurse them.

But at last the father and daughter had been obliged to leave with the
Russians. How furious the Russians had been--so depressed and
discouraged when the order came to retreat. There had been no fighting
round there for several days, and suddenly the news came that the whole
army was retreating. Why? They said there was no ammunition. So the
father and daughter left their property in the care of the gardener and
his wife, who were too old to move. How terrible it had been to abandon
this ground that so many Russians had died to win! No ammunition.
Waste--mismanagement--graft.

Those in Petrograd should think more of their country and less of their
own pockets. The unquestioning courage of the simple Russian soldiers!
Every one ready to die--and yet nothing to back them up. It was
disheartening.

"The Russians gave us a place in a cart, and we left in utter
confusion--soldiers, motor-cars, cattle, wounded, with the Austrian
cannon rumbling behind us."

"Were you frightened?" I asked. We were speaking French together.

"Not so frightened as sad. I was leaving my home. All my life I had
spent there excepting for a few weeks in the winter when mother used to
take us to Cracow for the balls. I hated to leave my beautiful party
dresses hanging up in the closets. I know some Austrian woman will wear
them. And I can't bear to think of our house burned! We have had such
jolly times there, hunting and riding and visiting the neighbors. You
don't know life on a Polish estate, do you? I can tell you there is
nothing so charming in the world."

Pan Morowski is a handsome, full-blooded man, and plays bridge all day
either in the _pension_ drawing-room or at the club.

His wife is small and nervous, and you can see that her main object in
life is to marry off her daughters well. She has three daughters,
pretty, fresh girls, who are fond of reading, and perfectly willing to
read only what their brothers permit them. Every day I run across one or