"I drove fourteen miles to-day," said one woman, "but those of us who
live long on the prairie do not mind these things. We were two hundred
miles from a railway when we went in first, and we only got our mail
'in the spring.' Now, when we have a station within fourteen miles and
a post-office on the next farm, we feel we are right in the midst of
things, and I suppose we do not really mind the inconveniences that
would seem dreadful to some people. We have done without things all
our lives, always hoping for better things to come, and able to bear
things that were disagreeable by telling ourselves that the children
would have things easier than we had had them. We have had frozen
crops; we have had hail; we have had serious sickness; but we have not
complained, for all these things seemed to be God's doings, and no one
could help it. We took all this--face upwards; but with the war--it is
different. The war is not God's doings at all. Nearly all the boys
from our neighborhood are gone, and some are not coming back----"

She stopped abruptly, and a silence fell on the group of us. She
fumbled for a moment in her large black purse, and then handed me an
envelope, worn, battered. It was addressed to a soldier in France and
it had not been opened. Across the corner, in red ink, was written the
words, "Killed in action."

"My letters are coming back now," she said simply. "Alex was my eldest
boy, and he went at the first call for men, and he was only
eighteen--he came through Saint-Éloi and Festubert--But this happened
in September."

The woman who sat beside her took up the theme. "We have talked a lot
about this at our Red Cross meetings. What do the women of the world
think of war? No woman ever wanted war, did she? No woman could bring