in a bank before the war and kept his widowed mother. He was in constant
fear as to her safety, for she had been left in their little house and
had no time to escape. He was well-educated and most interesting, and
oh, so gentle with the men. Then there was Louis, Ziské, and Charlké, a
big hefty Walloon who had been the butcher on a White Star liner before
the war, all excellent workers.

About this time I went on night duty and liked it very much. One was
much freer for one thing, and the sisters immediately became more human
(especially when they relied on the pros. to cook the midnight supper!),
and further there were no remarks or reflections about the defects of
the "untrained unit" who "imagined they knew everything after four
months of war." (With reference to cooking, I might here mention that
since the fish episode Mrs. Betton and I were on more than speaking
terms!)[3]

There were several very bad cases in Salle II. One especially Sister
feared would not pull through. I prayed he might live, but it was not to
be. She was right--one night about 2 a.m. he became rapidly worse and
perforation set in. The dreadful part was that he was so horribly
conscious all the time. "Miske," he asked, "think you that I shall see
my wife and five children again?" Before I could reply, he continued,
"They were there _là bas_ in the little house so happy when I left them
in 1914--My God," and he became agitated. "If it were not permitted that
I return? Do you think I am going to die, Miske?" "You must try and keep
the patient from getting excited," said the calm voice of the Sister,
who did not speak French. He died about an hour later. It was terrible.
"Why must they go through so much suffering?" I wondered miserably. If
they _are_ to die, why can't it happen at once?"