“Daisy, you wouldn’t like to see it.”

“Why, sir?”

“Poor fellows digging and making walls of sand or sods to shelter them from fire—­when every now and then comes a shot from the enemy’s batteries, ploughs up their work, and knocks over some poor rascal who never gets up again.  That’s one kind of hard work.”

Daisy’s face was intent in its interest; but she only said, “Please go on.”

“Do you like to hear it?”

“Yes, I like to know about it.”

“I wonder what Mrs. Randolph would say to me?”

“Please go on, Capt.  Drummond!”

“I don’t know about that.  However, Daisy, work in the trenches is not the hardest thing—­nor living wet through or frozen half through—­nor going half fed—­About the hardest thing I know, is in a hurried retreat to be obliged to leave sick and wounded friends and poor fellows to fall into the hands of the enemy.  That’s hard.”

“Isn’t it hard to fight a battle?”

“You would not like to march up to the fire of the enemy’s guns, and see your friends falling right and left of you—­struck down?”

“Would you?” said Daisy.

“Would I what?”

“Don’t you think it is hard, to do that?”

“Not just at the time, Daisy.  It is a little tough afterwards, when one comes to think about it.  It is hard to see fellows suffer too, that one cannot help.”

Daisy hardly knew what to think of Capt.  Drummond.  His handsome pleasant face looked not less gentle than usual, and did look somewhat more sober.  Daisy concluded it must be something about a soldier’s life that she could not understand, all this coolness with which he spoke of dreadful things.  A deep sigh was the testimony of the different feelings of her little breast.  Capt.  Drummond looked up at her.

“Daisy, women are not called to be soldiers.”

Daisy passed that.

“Have you told me all you can tell me, Capt.  Drummond?”

“I should not like to tell you all I could tell you.”

“Why?  Please do!  I want to know all about soldiers.”

He looked curiously at her.  “After all,” he said, “it is not so bad as you think, Daisy.  A good soldier does not find it hard to obey orders.”

“What sorts of orders does he have to obey?”

“All sorts.”

“But suppose they were wrong orders?”

“Makes no difference.”

“Wrong orders?”

“Yes,” said Capt.  Drummond, laughing.  “If it is something he can do, he does it; if it is something he can’t do, he loses his head trying.”

“Loses his head, sir?”

“Yes—­by a cannon ball; or his heart, by a musket ball; or maybe he gets off with losing a hand or a leg; just as it happens.  That makes no difference, either.”  He watched Daisy as he spoke, seeing a slight colour rise in her cheeks, and wondering what made the-child’s quiet grey eyes look at him so thoughtfully.