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Men, women and children. Whole families walking southward.

Many of these latter would not go far afield as yet. The fear would die in their hearts to-morrow, as the earth remained comparatively still, and they would return to their homes with shame-faced smiles for their neighbours; but, at this moment of panic they made such a picture as did Belgian refugees fleeing before the German invasion.

This, however, was but momentary panic on the part of the few. The vast majority in the stricken towns had risen to the emergency, and now laboured without rest to succour those buried in the ruins. These were the weak—these wanderers—or those whose maternal instincts encompassed only their own brood.

“Looks like another war,” remarked Roy, voicing the thoughts of many.

“Dear me! Dear me!” breathed the elderly man.

The women and Harley stared out of the windows, fascinated, horrified, silent.

Hastings.

The town which had turned a cheerful face to the skies but a few hours since, whose streets had been animated with the characteristic leisurely bustle of the smaller towns—streets upon which the sun had shone benignly—now lay with its heart shattered and smoking in its wrenched and twisted body.

Its commercial area had collapsed, and the once clean streets were foul with wreckage, and spotted with grim stains, hastily covered with dust, where frantic rescuers had laid broken bodies.

The leisurely bustle of its streets had given place to intent labour, as of the ants which burrow in the ruins of their demolished habitation heedless of the