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Show ! PUIICHER I & x t!AS, -r& By Robert J.C. Stead , A fff'- kitchener, and otner poem more than i ri! l adoration, perhaps in his words as lie strai'litcnpd up and i-aid in perfect English : "My father was a soldier. lie was killed at Cour-celette." Cour-celette." I looked iu his little .sunburnt face, in his dark, proud eyes, and presently a stran;i' mist enveloped the room. How many little faces, how many pairs of eyes ! It was just fading away when a .step sounded on the walk, and I arose as she leached the door. "The Man of the House has made me at hoim," I managed to say. "I am shipwrecked on the hill for a little gasoline." "There is plenty out in the field, where the tractor Is," she replied. "You will find It without difficulty. Or If you care to wait here, Charlie may be along presently." Her voice had sweet, modulated tones, with just that touch of pathos which only the Angel of Suffering knows how to add. And her face was fair, and gentle, and a little sad, and very sweet. "He has told me," I said. There seemed no reason why I should not say it. She had entered Into the sisterhood sis-terhood that universal sisterhood of suffering which the world has known in these long, lonely years. . . . And it was between us, for we were all in the family. There was no occasion to scrape acquaintance by slow, conventional con-ventional thrust and parry. "Yes," she said, sitting down and motioning me to a chair. "I was bitter at first. I was dreadfully bitter at first. But gradually I got a different view of it. Gradually I came to feel and know that all we can feel and CHAPTER XlV.-Continued. 22 "Your country needs you more," she whispered. "It is better that way. And I what a man you are In uniform! I ; think I see you smashing heads instead of bottles. Six out of six, Dave! It's awful, but you must do it. Already we know what has happened In Belgium. You will forget your own wrongs In I the greater wrongs of others. . . . And I .shall Join the service as a nurse. My father was a doctor, and I can soon pick It up." Slut chatted on, but he had become suddenly grave. "I don't think that is your course, Irene," lie said. "This is going to be a bigger Job than it looked. The government will get soldiers and nurses; the popular imagination turns to such things. But it will be neither soldiers nor nurses that will win the war. I feel sure of that now. Millions of men will be taken from production and turned to purposes of destruction. They will be taken from offices, where they need little food, and put in the trenches, where they need much food. Countries will be devastated ; armies will retreat, destroying all food as they go. Ships will go down with cargoes of wheat ; incendiary fires will swallow warehouses of food. I believe my place is in the trenches ; but those less fit for the fight than I must, in some form or other, produce food. That includes in-cludes the women ; It includes you." "We? But what can I do?" "Since I left home I've thought a good deal of the old ranch. I despised de-spised it in those prosperous days those days we thought were prosperous but the prosperity Is gone and the ranch remains. It still lies out there, just as It did when you and your father motored down that afternoon a dozen years ago. I think you'll have to go back there, Keenie. I think you'll have to take the boy Charlie, and what other help you can get, and go back to the old ranch and raise something for the soldiers to eat. You can do it. There are good men to be had ; men A rt etin'f vnrw wall iovi-it n vlflu tinf Its In s! cilia, which ts i;r.,.:-;.-i.i:, .; and sjrmpaii-y an.l service. An! in r a; order you ehall not be least, mvasurd ! eilher your sa?ri:i.e or the sp r.t m w!.".. h vou B.t y.j.j ar- yrii--.!r.? f..r i::s list v. erd: for jt:e ...-c '.: h to vou now a:i::nst a vv ..; f t... :::.if, I am haepy to i... ;, : ... :o j. you'll. at won!. It ens su:r-li..iis mo:e than c!:anc tiiai K'-ii'k-'i me t."at mai as it is every We were w-'.l tehinJ the line of aetu.il lUi.ti.".- but I bad bce.-rne uetaeh.e.l from ray party in moving to another station: l"St, if you like, yet not lost: never have I Rone so 'hri-etiy to so sr"t a destination. While try;n-t to ttet my loca on. I became aware of a I'l-.'.-rncp; It will -sound strange, to you. but t b'-eame intensely aware of your jresrnee. m" course I knew it could not be vou. in the fh-t'h. but you it Seemed to be. neverlheh-ss. 1 moved as though led by an invisible hnml, and, presently I found a bit of shattered wall. In the Klooin I could just d'.s'-ern the form of a man lyini; in the shelter of the wall if you could call it shelter It rose scarce a foot above the ground. I knelt beside him and turned my torch on his face. It was pale even through the brown skin; the eyes were closed: the hair was wet and plastered on the forehead; there were smears of blood on it and on his cheeks. As my light fell on his lips they framed a smile. "Reenie," he said, "it was pcod of you to come. I knew you would come." "I am here. Dave." 1 answered, and I think you will forgive the impersonation. "Now let me find out where you are hurt and we'll fix you up, and get you moved presently." He opened his eyes and looked at me with the strange look of a man whose thread of consciousness is half unraveled. "Oh, it's you, Edith." he said, when he had taken me In. "Funny. I thought It was Irene. I must have been dreaming." I questioned him again about his wounC and began feeling his hair. "It's not there," he said. "Guess I got It all over my hands. They got me this time. Don't waste time on me. Some other fellow may have a chance." I found, with a little examination, that the case was as bad as he supposed. Fortunately, For-tunately, the wound had Induced a local paralysis and he was not suffering to any great degree. I placed my hand in his and felt his grip tighten on It. "I'm going to stay till It's over, Dave. We'll see it out together." "That's decent," he answered, and then was still for quite a time. "I've often wondered what was on the other side," he said, at length. "I shall know presently." "You are not afraid?" I whispered. "No. Only sort of curious. And reverent. rev-erent. I guess It's reverent. . . . You know I haven't been much on religion. Never seemed to get the formula. What Is the formula? I mean the key the thing that gives it all in one word?" "In one word sacrifice. 'He that loseth his life shall find it,' " I quoted. He did not answer, but I could see his Hps smiling again. His breath was more labored. A few drops of rain fell, and some of them spattered on his face. Presently he chuckled. It was an eery sensation, out on that broad plain of death, alone by the side of this man who was already far into the shadow to hear him chuckle. "That splash of water you remember it made me think of the time wo pulled the old car into the stream, and the harness har-ness broke or something, and I had to carry you. You remember that, Reenie?" I could only say, "Yes," and press his hand. His mind was back on the old, old trails. He became suddenly sober. "And when Brownie was killed," he went on, "I said it was the innocent thing that got caught. Perhaps I was right. But perhaps it's best to get caught. Not for the getting caught, but for the the compensations. It's the Innocent men that are getting killed. And perhaps it's best. Perhaps there are compensations com-pensations worth while." His voice was weaker, and I had to lean close to catch his words. "I'm going out," he said. "Kiss me, Reenie." And then I kissed him for you. Suddenly he sat up. "The mountains!" he exclaimed, and his voice was athrill with the pride of his old hills. "See the moonlight on the mountains!" -Then his strength, which seemed to have gathered itself for this one last vision of the place of his boyhood, gave way, and he fell back, and he did not speak any more. And what can I add? Dear, It Is not defeat. It is promise. It is hope. Some day we shall know. But until then we shall go on. It is woman's bit to carry on. But not in despondency, not In bitterness, not In anger or despair. He didn't go out that way. He was reverent and a little curious, and he went out with a smile. And we shall go on, and carry his smile and his confidence through the valley of our sacrifice. What am I doing, speaking of our sacrifice? I salute you, sister in the Order of Sufferingand Suf-feringand of hope. EDITH DUNCAN. I handed the letter back to her, and for a time I had no words. "Won't you let me tell the story?" I said, at length. "The world is full of sorrow, and it needs voices to give that sorrow words, and perhaps turn it into hope as this letter does." She hesitated, and I realized then how much I had asked. "It is the story of my life my soul," she said. "Yet, if it would help " "Without names," I hastened to explain. ex-plain. "Without real names of places or people." And so, in that little whitewashed home, where the brown hills rise around and the placid mountains look down from the distance, and a tongue of spruce trees beyond the stream stands sentinel against the open prairie, she is carrying on, not in despondency and bitterness, but in service and in hope. And so her sisters, all this world over, must carry on, until their sweetness sweet-ness and their sacrifice shall fill up and flood over all the valleys of hate. . . And if you should chance that way, and if you should win the confidence con-fidence of young Three-year-old, he may stand for you and say, with his voice filled with the honor and the glory and the pride of it: "My father was a soldier. He was killed at Courcelette." THE EXD. ''g can drive a plow. And believe me, Iieenle, It's the plow that's going to win. Go back and put them at it. Think of every furrow as auother trench in the defenses which shall save your home from the fate of Belgium's homes. It's not as easy as going to the front ; it hasn't got the heroic ring to it, and I suppose there are many "My Father Was a Soldier He Was Killed at Courcelette." who will commercialize it. Let them. We shall need their profits after the war to pay our debts. But it's the thing that must be done. And you'll do it, won't you?" "I'll do whatever needs to be done, Dave. I'd rather be by your side, or as near as may be, but if you say that my duty lies back on the old ranch I shall go back to the old ranch and raise food for my soldier. And when it's all over we shall ride those old hillsides again. . . . Up the canyon, you remember, Dave? The little niche in the wall of the canyon, and all the silence and the sunlight? . . . Forever. For-ever. . . ." CHAPTER XV, Any philosophy which accepts the principle that the great, overshadowing overshadow-ing events of life are subject to an intelligent in-telligent controlling influence must of necessity grant that the same principle applies to the most commonplace and every-day experiences. The course of the greatest stream of events may well be deflected by incidents so commonplace com-monplace as to quite escape the notice of the casual observer. Some such thought .s this comforted me or, at least, would have comforted me, had I thought it when a leaking gasoline tank left me, literally as well as figuratively, high and dry in the foothills. The sun of an August afternoon after-noon blazed its glory from a cloudless sky ; low in a valley to the left a ribbon rib-bon of silver-green mountain water threaded its way through fringes of spruce and cottonwood, while on the uplands beyond sleek steers drowsed In the sunshine, and far to the westward west-ward the Eockies slept unconcerned in their draperies of afternoon purple. All these scenes the eye took in without with-out enthusiasm, almost without approval, ap-proval, and then fell on the whitewashed white-washed ranch buildings almost in the shadow underneath. Anil in these days a ranch almost any ranch meant gasoline. I soon stood at the door. My knock attracted a little chap of two and a half or three years; his stout hands shoved the screen back, and I found myself ushered into his company. There evidently was no oue else about, so I visited, and we talked on those things which are of importance in the world of three-year-olds. "Muvver's don to the wiver," he confided. "She turn back pwetty soon." "And father?" I asked. "Where is he?" Into the dark ejes came a deeper look; they suddenly shone with the spirituality of a life only three years removed from the infinite. By what instruction, I afterward wondered, by what almost divine ch.arin had she be -n :.No to instil into his young mind the h"-r !!nl the jilo. y an-l the pr'de ( j u? ftir tViv was Dili.-. r.iiJ sotu.tl'.iiu know liere is on the surface on the outside, as you might say, and we can't know the purpose until we are inside. It is as though life were a riddle, and the key is hidden, and the door behind which the key is hidden is called Death. And I don't believe it's all for nothing; I won't believe it's all for nothing. "Then there Is the suffering," she continued, after a pause. I don't know why there should be suffering, but I know if there were no suffering there would be no kindness. It is not until you are hit hard hit that you begin to think of other people. Until then all is selfishness. But we women we women of the war we have nothing left to be selfish for. But we have the whole world to be unselfish for. It's all different, and it can never go back. We won't let it go back. We've paid too much to let it go back." It was hard to find a reply. "I think I knew your husband a little," I ventured. ven-tured. "He was a a roan." "He was all that," she said. She arose and stood for a moment in an attitude of hesitation ; her fingers went to her lips as though enjoining caution. Then with quick decision she went into an inner room, from which she returned re-turned in a moment with a letter. "If you knew him you may care to read this," she said. "It's very personal, per-sonal, and yet, some way, everything is impersonal now, in a sense. There has been such a common cause, and such a wave of common suffering, that it seems to flood out over the individual individ-ual and embrace us all. ... So this is really, in a sense, your letter as well as mine." I took it and read : I have had many letters to write since my service began as a nurse in the war, but never have I approached the task with such mixed emotions. The pain I must give you I would gladly bear myself if I could; but it is not all pain; underneath under-neath it, running through it in some way I cannct explain, is a note so much deeper than pain that it must be joy. You have already been advised that David Da-vid Elden was among those who fell at Courcelette. It Is trite to saiy that you have the sympathy of a grateful nation. How-grateful How-grateful the nation really is we shall know by its treatment of the heroes who survive the war and of the dependents of those who have crossed over. But nothing noth-ing can rob you of the knowledge that he phiyed a man's part. Nothing can debai you from that universal fellowship of sympathy which is springing up wherever manhood is valued a its worth. A new Order has been born into the world: the Ojvler of Suffering. Not that it is new. either; it has been witi: us s'nee the first mother went into the shadow for her tirst child: but always suffering has been incidental, a matter of the individual, individ-ual, a tiling to-be escaped if possible. But now it is universal, a tiling not to be escaped, but to be accepted, readilv, braveiy. even gkitiiy. And all who so accent ac-cent it .-Hi', r into the new Oruer, and wear |
