much of their courage to the attitude of the women who stand
behind them, turning their tears to smiles to urge their men to even
greater deeds of heroism.

In one of our hospitals was a young lad of seventeen who had
managed to enlist as an "engage volontaire" by lying as to his age.
His old Mother came to visit him, and she told me he was the last
of her three sons; the two elder ones had died the first week of the
war at Pont Mousson, and her little home had been burned to the
ground. The boy had spent his time inventing new and terrible
methods of dealing with the enemy, but with his Mother he
became a child again and tenderly patted the old face. Seeing the
lad in his Mother's arms, and forgetting for one moment the spirit
of the French nation, I asked her if she would not be glad if her boy
was so wounded that she might take him home. She was only an
old peasant woman, but her eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed with
anger and turning to me she said, "Mademoiselle, how dare you
say such a thing to me? If all the Mothers, Wives and Sweethearts
thought as you, what would happen to the country? Gustave has
only one thing to do, get well quickly and fight for Mother France."

Because these women of France have sent their men forth to die,
eyes dry, with stiff lips and head erect, do not think that they do not
mourn for them. When night casts her kindly mantle of darkness
over all, when they are hidden from the eyes of the world, it is then
that the proud heads droop and are bent upon their arms, as the
women cry out in the bitterness of their souls for the men who
have gone from them. Yet they realise that behind them stands the
greatest Mother of all, Mother France, who sees coming towards
her, from her frontiers, line on line of ambulances with their burden