"That is rather a cruel idea," commented the Trained Nurse.

"Perhaps. But I believe organized charity even of that sort is usually
ineffective, and weakens the race that accepts it. I believe victims
of such disaster are healthier and come out stronger for facing it,
dying, or surviving, as Fate decrees."

"Keep off the grass," cried the Youngster. "I brought back a car full
of books." The hint was taken, and we talked of books until the coffee
came out.

As usual, the Trained Nurse sat behind the pot, and when we were all
served, she pushed the tray back, folded her strong capable white
hands on the edge of the table, and said quietly:

"_Messieurs et Mesdames_"--

We lit our cigarettes, and she began:

* * * * *

It was the first year after I left home and took up nursing. I had a
room at that time in one of the Friendly Society refuges on the lower
side of Beacon Hill. It was under the auspices of an Episcopal High
Church in the days of Father Hall, and was rather English in tone.
Indeed its matron was an Englishwoman--gentle, round-faced,
lace-capped, and very sympathetic. I was very fond of her. I had, as a
seamstress, a neat little girl named Josephine.

Josephine was a tiny creature, all grey in tone, with mouse-colored