He dabbled in ditch-water, and always returned to Hilda with the bandage
very wet and dirty.

Here was their home--Belgium, flowering and happy, or Belgium, black and
perishing. Still it is Belgium, the homeland. Why take on the ugly
hazards of exile?

If your husband is ill and broken, you stay by him. He is your man. So
with the land of your birth, the village where you are one with the
soil. You stay and suffer, and meantime you live. Still you plant and
plough, though the guns are loud in the night, and Les Bosches just over
the meadow. And here was one of these women in the wrecked, charred
village of Pervyse carrying on the great, natural process of life as
unperturbed as if her home was in a valley of peace.

The three women ran over to a little house two hundred yards down the
road. One wall of it was bullet-chipped, one room of it a wreck from a
spent obus. But, for the rest, it was a livable little place, and here
was gathered a Flemish family. The event was half over, as Mrs. Bracher,
closely followed by Scotch and Hilda, rushed in. The mother, fully
dressed, was lying on a wooden bed that fitted into an alcove. She was
typically Flemish, of high cheek-bones and very red cheeks. The entire
family was grouped about the bed--a boy of twelve years, a girl of
nineteen, and a girl of three. Attending the case, was a little old
woman, the grandmother, wearing a knitted knobby bonnet, sitting high on
the top of her head and tied under her chin--a conical frame for her
pert, dark eyes and firm mouth. She was a tiny woman, every detail of
her in miniature, clearly defined, except the heavy, noisy wooden shoes.
She carried in her personality an air of important indignation. With the
confidence of a lifetime of obstetrical experience, she drew from her
pocket a brown string, coarse and dirty, and tied up the newcomer's
navel. It was little the nurses were allowed to help. Though a trained
and certificated midwife, Mrs. Bracher was edged out of the ministration
by the small, determined grandmother, who looked anger and scorn out of
her little black eyes upon the three. She resented their coming.
Antiseptic gauze and hot-water bottles were as alien as the Germans to
her.

So "Pervyse" entered this world. Nothing could hold him back, neither
shell nor bayonets. He had slipped through the net of death which men
were so busily weaving. There he was, a matter of fact--a vital, lusty,
shapeless fact. To that little creatu