however," said Beth quietly. "My heart goes out, Uncle, to those poor
victims of the war's cruelty, the wounded and dying. I wish I could do
something to help them!"

Uncle John moved uneasily in his chair. Then he laid down his paper and
applied himself to his breakfast. But his usual merry expression had
faded into one of thoughtfulness.

"The wounded haunt me by day and night," went on Beth. "There are
thousands upon thousands of them, left to suffer terrible pain--perhaps
to die--on the spot where they fell, and each one is dear to some poor
woman who is ignorant of her loved one's fate and can do nothing but
moan and pray at home."

"That's the hard part of it," said Patsy, her cousin. "I think the
mothers and wives and sweethearts are as much to be pitied as the fallen
soldiers. The men _know_ what has happened, but the women don't. It
isn't so bad when they're killed outright; the family gets a medal to
indicate that their hero has died for his country. But the wounded are
lost sight of and must suffer in silence, with no loving hands to soothe
their agony."

"My dears!" pleaded Uncle John, plaintively, "why do you insist upon
flavoring our breakfast with these horrors? I--I--there! take it away; I
can't eat."

The conversation halted abruptly. The girls were likewise unnerved by
the mental pictures evolved by their remarks and it was now too late to
restore cheerfulness to the morning meal. They sat in pensive silence
for a while and were glad when Mr. Merrick pushed back his chair and