and it is to see the flowers, to feel one's strength
returning, to go for drives and walks, to find a field that is not
pitted by shell holes! And how cheerful they all are, these grown-up
babies!

The other day I opened the door of the hospital and discovered a
"convoy" consisting of three legless and two armless men, trying to help
each other up the six low steps, and shouting with laughter at their
efforts. And one of them saw the pity on my face, for he grinned.

"Don't you worry about us," he said. "I wouldn't care if I 'ad no arms
nor eyes nor legs, so long as I was 'ome in Blighty again. Why"--and his
voice dropped as he let me into the secret--"I've 'ad a li'l boy born
since I went out to the front, an' I never even seed the li'l beggar
yet. Gawd, we in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain't
killed ought to be 'appy and bright like what we is."

And it is the happiness of all these men that makes hospital a very
beautiful place, for nowhere can you find more courage and cheerfulness
than among these fellows with their crutches and their bandages.

There was only one man--Bill Stevens--who seemed despondent and
miserable, and we scarcely wondered--he was blind, and lay in bed day
after day, with a bandage round his head, the only blind man in the
hospital. He was silent and morbid, and would scarcely mutter a word of
thanks when some man came right across the ward on his crutches to do
him a trifling service, but he had begged to be allowed to stay in the
big ward until the time came for him to go off to a special hostel for
the men who have lost their sight. And the men who saw him groping about
helplessly in broad daylight forgave him his surliness, and ceased to
wonder at his despondency.

But even Bill Stevens was to change, for there came a day when he
received a letter.

"What's the postmark?" he demanded.

"Oxford," said the nurse. "Shall I read it to you?"

But Bill Stevens clutched his letter tight and shook his head, and it
was not until lunch-time that anything more was heard of it. Then he
called the Sister to him, and she read the precious document almost in
a whisper, so secret was it. Private Bill Stevens plucked nervously at
the bedclothes as the Sister recited the little love sentences:--How was
dear Bill? Why hadn't he told his Emily what was wrong with him? That
she, Emily, would come to see him at four o'clock that afternoon, and
how nice it would be.

"Now you keep q