lance, "what _do_
you think Baby says she'll do?"

Baby was just about to take a substantial bite out of her round of
toast; but at Sydney's words she stopped halfway and said promptly,
"Baby's going to take care of the poor soldiers."

Gerry, at the other end of the table, put down his mug with a satisfied
gasp, and then burst out laughing, whilst Cyril raised his head and said
solemnly, "The soldiers might shoot you, Baby."

Baby went on unconcernedly with her tea; and Sydney said loftily, "It's
all nonsense, of course! She'll know better by and by. Children can't
take care of soldiers, can they, Nurse?"

"Bless her heart!" said Nurse, as she softly stroked the fair little
head, and placed a fresh plate of toast on the table.

"But can they, now?" persisted Sydney.

Nurse paused, then said slowly, "I did hear a story from an old soldier,
and he certainly said it was a child who saved his life. It was in the
Crimean War, and there had been a great battle, and he lay on the field,
after all was over, with no one but the wounded and dead near him. He
was very cold, and suffering fearfully from thirst, as people always do
after gun-shot wounds, and he thought he would die there alone and
uncared-for, when, in the moonlight, he saw a little drummer-boy picking
his way amongst all the dead and dying, and gathering all the old
gun-stocks that were lying about. When the lad had got enough, he set to
work to make a fire, and then he boiled some water, and made tea, and
brought some round to all the wounded men he could find. That hot tea
was the saving of a good many lives, the soldier said; and the little
lad was so cheery that the poor men plucked up heart, and felt that God
had not forgotten them, as before they had been almost tempted to
think."

"That was a brave boy," said Sydney. "But still, you know, Nurse, Baby
couldn't do that."

"Deary, no!" exclaimed Nurse. "But, you see, Master Sydney, if people
are bent upon helping others, they'll find out ways for themselves, for
there's plenty in need of help. I know a rough lad now who does his best
to keep straight and please 'his lady,' as he calls his Sunday teacher.
She writes to him sometimes, and he's as proud of those letters as if
they came from the Queen."

"Yes, you might write letters, Baby," Sydney graciously allowed.

"And you can pray for the soldiers, dearie," said Nurse. "There's no
knowing the good you may do them by that."

But the carriage now