baby, finally fed and warmed, slept exhausted in Evelyn's arms.

In all the cruel war whose dark shadow obscured Europe a great deal of
suffering fell to the share of the poor little babies and the small
children. To older children war could be explained. It was a vast and
terrible something that swept away homes and food and comfort. It was
a monster that devoured fathers and brothers, and left families without
support, and homeless. But there was a reason that could be told, and
which they could understand more or less.

But the tiny ones, alas! What could be told them when their little
world tumbled, when they were carried out from warmth and safety, when
food was denied; when the bosoms that had warmed them grew cold and
unresponsive, what could they do but suffer and die the slow, torturing
death of hunger and cold?

Their little cries arose to heaven, there were no ears to hear them
when the thunder of guns drowned all else. Poor, poor babies! Born,
many of them, to enlighten the world with new discoveries, to cure the
afflicted, to bring joy, they have perished as surely or a cause which
they could not understand as have the soldiers in the trenches.

When great nations are falling, and men are being mowed down like
grass, in numbers beyond the counting, the lives of little babies can
only be held precious by mothers who guard them with their every
breath.

The poor little bit of humanity found by the boys would soon have
closed its little eyes in the death which bad so suddenly overtaken the
mother and sister. But it proved a sturdy little scrap, and after