of tragedy has flowed through a hospital, it would be easy for
surgeons and nurses to treat mutilation and death perfunctorily. They
don't. They show no emotion. They are even cheerful; but their
strained faces tell the story and their hands have an immense
compassion.

Two faces especially loom out. I can always see them by lamp-light,
when the rest of the ward is hushed and shrouded, stooping over some
silent bed. One face is that of the Colonel of the hospital, grey,
concerned, pitiful, stern. His eyes seem to have photographed all the
suffering which in three years they have witnessed. He's a tall man,
but he moves softly. Over his uniform he wears a long white operating
smock--he never seems to remove it. And he never seems to sleep, for
he comes wandering through his Gethsemane all hours of the night to
bend over the more serious cases. He seems haunted by a vision of the
wives, mothers, sweethearts, whose happiness is in his hands. I think
of him as a Christ in khaki.

The other face is of a girl--a sister I ought to call her. She's the
nearest approach to a sculptured Greek goddess I've seen in a living
woman. She's very tall, very pale and golden, with wide brows and big
grey eyes like Trilby. I wonder what she did before she went to
war--for she's gone to war just as truly as any soldier. I'm sure in
the peaceful years she must have spent a lot of time in being
loved. Perhaps her man was killed out here. Now she's ivory-white with
over-service and spends all her days in loving. Her eyes have the old
frank, innocent look, but they're ringed with being weary. Only her
lips hold a touch of colour; they have a childish trick of trembling
when any one's wound is hurting too much. She's the first touch of
home that the stretcher-cases see when they've said good-bye to the