drives by on his motor-truck, or as he flashes by on his motor-cycle,
though they may be willing to suffer as France has suffered, if need
be, prays God that that may never be necessary, for the American
soldier, since he has been in France, has seen what suffering means.

And so that crossroads crucifix stands out against the lurid night of
France, with its reminder constantly before the American soldier, and
it tends to make him more gentle with French children and women, and
more kindly with French men. There is a new understanding of each
other, a new cement of friendship binding our allies together in
France; there is a new world-wide brotherhood breaking across the
horizon of time, coming through sacrifice.

The world is once again being atoned for. Its sin is being washed
away. Innocent men are suffering that humanity may be saved.

The last time I saw this cross was by night. I had seen it first at
night, and fitting it was that I should see it last at night. There
was a terrible bombardment down the lines. Hundreds of American boys
had been killed. One was wounded who was a son of one of the foremost
Americans. News of the fight had been coming in to us all day long.
Night came and "runners" were still bringing in the gruesome details.
The ambulances were running in a continuous procession. We had seen
things that day and night that made our hearts sick. We had seen
American boys white and unconscious. We had seen every available room
in the great evacuation hospital crowded. We had been told that a
hundred surgical cases were in the hospital, mostly shrapnel wounds,
and that every available doctor and nurse was working night and day.

We had seen, under one snow-covered canvas, six boys who had been