“Yes,” nodded her uncle, “the horror of it destroys the interest we naturally feel in any manly struggle for supremacy.”

“This great war is no manly struggle,” observed Patsy with a toss of her head.  “It is merely wholesale murder by a band of selfish diplomats.”

“Tut-tut!” warned Mr. Merrick; “we Americans are supposed to be neutral, my dear.  We must not criticize.”

“That does not prevent our sympathizing with the innocent sufferers, however,” said Beth quietly.  “My heart goes out, Uncle, to those poor victims of the war’s cruelty, the wounded and dying.  I wish I could do something to help them!”

Uncle John moved uneasily in his chair.  Then he laid down his paper and applied himself to his breakfast.  But his usual merry expression had faded into one of thoughtfulness.

“The wounded haunt me by day and night,” went on Beth.  “There are thousands upon thousands of them, left to suffer terrible pain—­perhaps to die—­on the spot where they fell, and each one is dear to some poor woman who is ignorant of her loved one’s fate and can do nothing but moan and pray at home.”

“That’s the hard part of it,” said Patsy, her cousin.  “I think the mothers and wives and sweethearts are as much to be pitied as the fallen soldiers.  The men know what has happened, but the women don’t.  It isn’t so bad when they’re killed outright; the family gets a medal to indicate that their hero has died for his country.  But the wounded are lost sight of and must suffer in silence, with no loving hands to soothe their agony.”

“My dears!” pleaded Uncle John, plaintively, “why do you insist upon flavoring our breakfast with these horrors?  I—­I—­there! take it away; I can’t eat.”

The conversation halted abruptly.  The girls were likewise unnerved by the mental pictures evolved by their remarks and it was now too late to restore cheerfulness to the morning meal.  They sat in pensive silence for a while and were glad when Mr. Merrick pushed back his chair and rose from the table.

As Beth and Patsy followed their uncle into the cosy library where he was accustomed to smoke his morning cigar, the little man remarked: 

“Let’s see; this is the seventh of September.”

“Quite right, Uncle,” said Patsy.

“Isn’t this the day Maud Stanton is due to arrive?”

“No,” replied Beth; “she will come to-morrow morning.  It’s a good four days’ trip from California to New York, you know.”

“I wonder why she is coming here at this time of year,” said Patsy reflectively, “and I wonder if her Aunt Jane or her sister Flo are with her.”

“She did not mention them in her telegram,” answered Beth.  “All she said was to expect her Wednesday morning.  It seems quite mysterious, that telegram, for I had no idea Maud thought of coming East.”

“Well, we will know all about it when she arrives,” observed Uncle John.  “I will be glad to see Maud again, for she is one of my especial favorites.”