little border of box round the graves.

“But,” I said to him, “they won’t strike. It’s not the right time of
year—and the ground’s too dry.”

“I know, sir,” he said, “but it will look as if somebody cares.”

God’s jewels lie deep, and if you will dig deep enough you will find
them—so I took the trouble to dig a little deeper. I said, “Nobody will
see them here.”

“Yes, sir, the angels will. You taught me to think like this in one of the
meetings in the huts, and since I can’t do any more in the fight”—for he
was disabled—“I am putting in my time caring for the boys’ graves, and if
the wives and mothers don’t see them—well”—and his face lit up with a
radiance that I can’t put into words—“the angels will, sir.”

* * * * *

I have had your boys say to me, “Gipsy, does it mean Blighty, or does it
mean West?” I have had to say to some of them, “It doesn’t mean Blighty.”

A sister took me to see one dear fellow. He was blown up by a mine, both
his legs and his arm were broken.

“I was lying out there, after the mine blew up, for twenty-four hours, and
I was half buried,” he told me.

Fancy lying out there in No Man’s Land for twenty-four hours with both
legs broken and an arm!