wn grief will make you understand all the better what
it means to the daddies in the army who leave their babies and their
wives, and oh, dear, be good to them!"

Then there was the next morning at the Oakland pier as the great
transcontinental train pulled out, when the little six-year-old lady
for the first time suddenly saw what losing her daddy meant. She
hadn't visualized it before. Consequently, she had been brave, and had
even boasted of her bravery. But now she had nothing to be brave
about, for as the train started to move she suddenly burst into sobs
and started down the platform after the train as fast as her sturdy
little legs could carry her, crying between sobs, "Come back, daddy!
Come back to Betty! Don't go away!" with her mother after her.

The daddy had no easy time as he watched this tragedy of childhood from
the observation-car. It was a half-hour before he dared turn around
and face the rest of the sympathetic passengers.

Going back on the ferry to San Francisco the weeping did not cease. In
fact it became contagious, for a kindly old gentleman, thinking that
the little lady was afraid of the boat, said: "What's the matter, dear?
Are you afraid?"

"No, sir, I'm not afraid; but my daddy's gone to France, and I want him
back! I want my daddy! I want my daddy!" and the storm burst again.
Then here and there all over the boat the women wept. Here and there a
man pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pretended to blow his
nose.

And so we understand what it meant to this young secretary when, upon
landing in France, he got the cable telling of the death of his baby
girl.

At first he was stunned by the blow.

Then came a brave second cable from his wife telling him that there was
nothing that he could do at home; to stay at his contemplated task of
being a friend to the boys.

The brave note in the second cable gave him new spirit and new courage,
and in spite of a heavy heart he went into a canteen, and will any
wonder who read this story that he has won the undying devotion of his
entire regiment by his tireless self-sacrificing service to the
American boys?

What triumphs these are, what triumphs over sorrow and pain.

All of France is filled with these Silhouettes of Sorrow, but each has
a background of triumphant, dawning light.

There was the woman and child that I saw in the Madeleine in Paris,
both in black. They walked slowly up the steps and in through the
great