“We will not know definitely about it for a few weeks,” he said, and went on reading.

After that, Mrs. Winters attended every recruiting meeting at which her husband spoke, eagerly memorizing his words, hardly knowing why, but she felt that she might need them.  She had never been able to argue with any one—­one adverse criticism of her position always caused her defense to collapse.  So she collected all the material she could get on the subject of personal responsibility and sacrifice.  Her husband’s brilliant way of phrasing became a delight to her.  But always, as she listened, vague doubts arose in her mind.

One day when she was sewing at the Red Cross rooms, the women were talking of a sad case that had occurred at the hospital.  A soldier’s wife had died, leaving a baby two weeks old and another little girl of four, who had been taken to the Children’s Shelter, and who had cried so hard to be left with her mother.  One of the women had been to see the sick woman the day before she died, and was telling the others about her.

“A dear little saint on earth she was—­well bred, well educated, but without friends.  Her only anxiety was for her children and sympathy for her husband.  ‘This will be sad news for poor Bob,’ she said, ’but he’ll know I did my best to live—­I cannot get my breath—­that’s the worst—­if I could only get my breath—­I would abide the pain some way.’  The baby is lovely, too,—­a fine healthy boy.  Now I wonder if there is any woman patriotic enough to adopt those two little ones whose mother is dead and whose father is in the trenches.  The baby went to the Shelter yesterday.”

“Of course they are well treated there,” said Mrs. Winters.

“Well treated!” cried the president—­“they are fed and kept warm and given all the care the matron and attendants can give them; but how can two or three women attend to twenty-five children?  They do all they can, but it’s a sad place just the same.  I always cry when I see the mother-hungry look on their faces.  They want to be owned and loved—­they need some one belonging to them.  Don’t you know that settled look of loneliness?  I call it the ‘institutional face,’ and I know it the minute I see it.  Poor Bob Wilson—­it will be sad news for him—­he was our plumber and gave up a good job to go.  At the station he kept saying to his wife to comfort her, for she was crying her heart out, poor girl, ’Don’t cry, Minnie dear, I’m leaving you in good hands; they are not like strangers anymore, all these kind ladies; they’ll see you through.  Don’t you remember what the Doctor said,’—­that was your husband, Mrs. Winters,—­’the women are the best soldiers of all—­so you’ll bear up, Minnie.’

“Minnie was a good soldier right enough,” said the president, “but I wonder what Bob will think of the rest of us when he comes home—­or doesn’t come home.  We let his Minnie die, and sent his two babies to the Children’s Shelter.  In this manner have we discharged our duty—­we’ve taken it easy so far.”