CHAPTER XXVII

The next morning was the last day of the evil year of 1914, and the only cheerful thought about it was that the new year could not possibly be so bad. Every Belgian felt that “in three months more” spring would solve the acrid winter, fetch flowers from the black soil, and set peace abloom on the briers of war. For hope, like a lying nurse, lures us frightened children past one terror at a time to the next, with promises incessantly exposed, incessantly renewed, incessantly believed. Noll and Dimny made so early a …