apathy, by hope. The man next you cannot live a week, but he seems
content; at all events, it is not fear that one sees in his face. There
is no fear--there is hope.
The train is bright with flowers; there are nurses, and books, and
well-cooked food--there is even champagne for the select few. There is
no longer the shattered country of the firing line, but there are hills
and rivers, there is the sea near Wimereux, and the hope of being sent
home to England. There are shattered wrecks that were men, there is the
knowledge of hovering death, but, above all, there is hope.
So the train hastens on--no crawling this time--to the clearing house,
the Base. Past the little sun-washed villages it runs, and the gleaming
Seine brings smiles to wan faces. There, look, over there in the
distance, are the wonderful spires and the quaint houses and the river,
all fresh and laughing in the sun, and the trees up on the hill above
the town are all tender green. Even if one is to die, one may get back
home first; at all events, one has been spared to see God's clean
country, and to breathe untainted air again.
* * * * *
_Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and
Aylesbury, for Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd._