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 years of age left alive in Poland. Think of that, Sophia Crawford”—Susan shook a floury finger at Sophia—“not—one—child—under—eight—years—of—age!”

“I suppose the Germans has et ’em all,” sighed Cousin Sophia.

“Well, no-o-o,” said Susan reluctantly, as if she hated to admit that there was any crime the Huns couldn’t be accused of. “The Germans have not turned cannibal yet—as far as I know. They have died of starvation and exposure, the poor little creatures. There is murdering for you, Cousin Sophia Crawford. The thought of it poisons every bite and sup I take.”

“I see that Fred Carson of Lowbridge has been awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal,” remarked the doctor, over his local paper.

“I heard that last week,” said Susan. “He is a battalion runner and he did something extra brave and daring. His letter, telling his folks about it, came when his old Grandmother Carson was on her dying bed. She had only a few minutes more to live and the Episcopal minister, who was there, asked her if she would not like him to pray. ‘Oh, yes, yes, you can pray, she said impatient-like—she was a Dean, Dr. dear, and the Deans were always high-spirited—‘you can pray, but for pity’s sake pray low and don’t disturb me. I want to think over this splendid news and I have not much time left to do it.’ That was Almira Carson all over. Fred was the apple of her eye. She was seventy-five years of age and had not a grey hair in her head, they tell me.”

“By the way, that reminds me—I found a grey hair