in the section which was now burning; others had been turned out
of their homes by the Germans; and all were hastening along, carrying
babies and bundles, and followed by groups of older children.

Jan and Marie were swept along with the hurrying crowd, through the
city gate and beyond, along the river road which led to Antwerp. No one
spoke to them. Doubtless they were supposed to belong to some one of
the fleeing families, and it was at least comforting to the children to
be near people of whom they were not afraid. But Jan and Marie could
not keep pace with the swift-moving crowd of refugees. They trudged
along the highway at their best speed, only to find themselves
straggling farther and farther behind.

They were half a mile or more beyond the city gate when they overtook a
queer little old woman who was plodding steadily along wheeling a
wheelbarrow, in front of her. She evidently did not belong among the
refugees, for she was making no effort to keep up with them. She had
bright, twinkling black eyes, and snow-white hair tucked under a
snow-white cap. Her face was as brown as a nut and full of wrinkles,
but it shone with such kindness and good-will that, when Jan and Marie
had taken one look at her, they could not help walking along by her
side.

"Maybe she has seen Mother," whispered Marie to Jan. "Let's ask her!"

The little old woman smiled down at them as they joined her. "You'll
have to hurry, my dears, or you won't keep up with your folks," she
said kindly.

"They aren't our folks," said Jan.

"They aren't?" said the little old woman, stopping short. "Then where
are your folks?"

"We haven't any, not just now," said Jan. "You see our father is a
soldier, and our mother, oh, have you seen our mother? She's lost!"

The little old woman gave them a quick, pitying glance. "Lost, is she?"
she said. "Well, now, I can't just be sure whether I've seen her or
not, not knowing what she looks like, but I wouldn't say I haven't.
Lots of folks have passed this way. How did she get lost?" She sat down
on the edge of the barrow and drew the children to her side. "Come,
now," she said, "tell Granny all about it! I've seen more trouble than
any one you ever saw in all your life before, and I'm not a mite afraid
of it either."

Comforted already, the children poured forth their story.

"You poor little lambs!" she cried, when they had finished, "and you
haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday! Mercy on us! You