THE DRAMA OF 365 DAYS
fortable dug-out now—three planks and a truss of straw, and I sleep on it like a top." Or, perhaps, "You see they have sent me back to the Base after six weeks under fire, and now I have a real, real room, and a real, real bed!" The dear old darling! She puts her precious letters on the mantelpiece for everybody to see, and laughs over them all day long. But when night comes, and she is winding the clock before going upstairs, thinking of the boy who not so long ago used to sleep on her knees. ... "Ah, me!"
And then the final trial, the last tragic test—the women are equal to that also. First, the letter in the large envelope from the War Office: "Dear Madam, the Secretary of State regrets to inform you that Lieutenant So-and-So is reported killed in action on . . . Lord Kitchener begs to offer you ..." And then, a little later, from the royal palace: "The King and Queen send you their most sincere. . . ." Oh, if she could only go out to the place where they have laid . . . But then the Lord will know where to find His Own!
Somebody in Paris said the other day, "No one will ever make our women cry any more—after the war." All the springs of their tears will be dry.
