Dunkirk was thronged with reserves—­English, Belgian and French.  The Turcos and East Indians were employed by the British in this section and were as much dreaded by the civilians as the enemy.  Uncle John noticed that military discipline was not so strict in Dunkirk as at Ostend; but the Germans had but one people to control while the French town was host to many nations and races.

Strange as it may appear, the war was growing monotonous to those who were able to view it closely, perhaps because nothing important resulted from all the desperate, continuous fighting.  The people were pursuing their accustomed vocations while shells burst and bullets whizzed around them.  They must manage to live, whatever the outcome of this struggle of nations might be.

Aboard the American hospital ship there was as yet no sense of monotony.  The three girls who had conceived and carried out this remarkable philanthropy were as busy as bees during all their waking hours and the spirit of helpful charity so strongly possessed them that all their thoughts were centered on their work.  No two cases were exactly alike and it was interesting, to the verge of fascination, to watch the results of various treatments of divers wounds and afflictions.

The girls often congratulated themselves on having secured so efficient a surgeon as Doctor Gys, who gloried in his work, and whose judgment, based on practical experience, was comprehensive and unfailing.  The man’s horribly contorted features had now become so familiar to the girls that they seldom noticed them—­unless a cry of fear from some newly arrived and unnerved patient reminded them that the doctor was exceedingly repulsive to strangers.

No one recognized this grotesque hideousness more than Doctor Gys himself.  When one poor Frenchman died under the operating knife, staring with horror into the uncanny face the surgeon bent over him, Beth was almost sure the fright had hastened his end.  She said to Gys that evening, when they met on deck, “Wouldn’t it be wise for you to wear a mask in the operating room?”

He considered the suggestion a moment, a deep flush spreading over his face; then he nodded gravely.

“It may be an excellent idea,” he agreed.  “Once, a couple of years ago, I proposed wearing a mask wherever I went, but my friends assured me the effect would be so marked that it would attract to me an embarrassing amount of attention.  I have trained myself to bear the repulsion involuntarily exhibited by all I meet and have taught myself to take a philosophic, if somewhat cynical, view of my facial blemishes; yet in this work I can see how a mask might be merciful to my patients.  I will experiment a bit along this line, if you will help me, and we’ll see what we can accomplish.”

“You must not think,” she said quietly, for she detected a little bitterness in his tone, “that you are in any way repulsive to those who know you well.  We all admire you as a man and are grieved at the misfortunes that marred your features.  After all, Doctor, people of intelligence seldom judge one by appearances.”