ter may be on its way with its curt
inscription across the corner. I got my commission there to tell
fearlessly and hopefully the story of the Next of Kin.

It will be written in many ways, by many people, for the brand of this
war is not only on our foreheads, but deep in our hearts, and it will
be reflected in all that our people write for many years to come. The
trouble is that most of us feel too much to write well; for it is hard
to write of the things which lie so heavy on our hearts; but the
picture is not all dark--no picture can be. If it is all dark, it
ceases to be a picture and becomes a blot. Belgium has its tradition
of deathless glory, its imperishable memories of gallant bravery which
lighten its darkness and make it shine like noonday. The one
unlightened tragedy of the world to-day is Germany.

I thought of these things that night when I was being entertained at
the Southern woman's hospitable home.

"It pretty near took a war to make these English women friendly to
each other and to Americans. I lived here six months before any of
them called on me, and then I had to go and dig them out; but I was
not going to let them go on in such a mean way. They told me then that
they were waiting to see what church I was going to; and then I rubbed
it into them that they were a poor recommend for any church, with
their mean, unneighborly ways; for if a church does not teach people
to be friendly I think it ought to be burned down, don't you? I told
them I could not take much stock in that hymn about 'We shall know
each other there,' when they did not seem a bit anxious about knowing
each other here, which is a heap more important; for in heaven we will
all have angels to play with, but here we only have each other, and it
is right lonesome when they won't come out and play! But I tell you
things have changed for the better since the war, and now we knit and
sew together, and forgive each other for being Methodists and
Presbyterians; and, do you know? I made a speech one night, right out
loud so everybody could hear me, in a Red Cross meeting, and that is
what I thought that I could never do. But I got feeling so anxious
about the prisoners of war in Germany that I couldn't help making an
appeal for them; and I was so keen about it, and wanted every one of
those dear boys to get a square meal, that I forgot all about little
Mrs. Price, and I was not caring a cent whether she was doing herself
proud or not. And