amuse
themselves; they had money and opportunity. It was the doughboys she
loved and mothered. For them she organized her little entertainments.
For them she played and sang in the evenings, when the field range in
the kitchen was cold, and her blistered fingers stumbled sometimes over
the keys of the jingling camp piano.

Gradually, out of the chaos of her early impressions, she began to
divide the men in the army into three parts. There were the American
born; they took the war and their part in it as a job to be done, with
as few words as possible. And there were the foreigners to whom America
was a religion, a dream come true, whose flaming love for their new
mother inspired them to stuttering eloquence and awkward gestures. And
then there was a third division, small and mostly foreign born, but
with a certain percentage of native malcontents, who hated the war and
sneered among themselves at the other dupes who believed that it was a
war for freedom. It was a capitalists' war. They considered the state as
an instrument of oppression, as a bungling interference with liberty
and labor; they felt that wealth inevitably brought depravity. They
committed both open and overt acts against discipline, and found in
their arrest and imprisonment renewed grievances, additional oppression,
tyranny. And one day a handful of them, having learned Lily's identity,
came into her hut and attempted to bait her.

"Gentlemen," said one of them, "we have here an example of one of the
idle rich, sacrificing herself to make us happy. Now, boys, be happy.
Are we all happy?" He surveyed the group. "Here, you," he addressed a
sullen-eyed squat Hungarian. "Smile when I tell you. You're a slave in
one of old Cardew's mills, aren't you? Well, aren't you grateful to him?
Here he goes and sends his granddaughter--"

Willy Cameron had entered the room with a platter of doughnuts in his
hand, and stood watching, his face going pale. Quite suddenly there
was a crash, and the gang leader went down in a welter of porcelain and
fried pastry. Willy Cameron was badly beaten up, in the end, and the
beaters were court-martialed. But something of Lily's fine faith in
humanity was gone.

"But," she said to him, visiting him one day in the base hospital, where
he was still an aching, mass of bruises, "there must be something behind
it. They didn't hate me. They only hated my--well, my family."

"My dear child," said Willy Cameron, feeling very old and ex