"So they do--in fine weather--" said the Captain. "But just where the
hardest work is to do, is where they can't carry their tents."

"Couldn't that be prevented?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I should think they'd get sick?"

"_Think_ they would! Why they do, Daisy, by hundreds and hundreds. What
then? A soldier's life isn't his own; and if he has to give it up in a
hospital instead of on the field, why it's good for some other fellow."

So this it was, not to belong to oneself! Daisy looked on the soldier
before her who had run, or would run, such risks, very tenderly; but
nevertheless the child was thinking her own thoughts all the while. The
Captain saw both things.

"What is the 'hard work' they have to do?" she asked presently.

"Daisy, you wouldn't like to see it."

"Why, sir?"

"Poor fellows digging and making walls of sand or sods to shelter them
from fire--when every now and then comes a shot from the enemy's
batteries, ploughs up their work, and knocks over some poor rascal who
never gets up again. That's one kind of hard work."