suffer--who are not to blame. There are children, like my
children, asking the same questions--. This drive has seemed to me
like the slaughter of sheep, with a great Wolf behind them, a Wolf
without mercy, sending them down to destruction, to--death--"

"And the Wolf--?"

Margaret raised her hand and let it drop, "God knows."

And now soldiers were being rushed overseas. Trains swept across the
land loaded with men who gazed wistfully at the peaceful towns as they
passed through, or chafed impotently when, imprisoned in day coaches,
they were side-tracked outside of great cities.

And on the battle line those droves and droves of gray sheep were
driven down and down--to death--by the Wolf.

The war was coming closer to America. A look of care settled on the
faces of men and women who had, hitherto, taken things lightly.
Fathers, who had been very sure that the war would end before their
sons should go to France, faced the fact that the end was not in sight,
and that the war would take its toll of the youth of America. Mothers,
who had not been sure of anything, but had hidden their fears in their
hearts, stopped reading the daily papers. Wives, who had looked upon
the camp experiences of their husbands as a rather great adventure,
knew now that there might be a greater adventure with a Dark Angel.
The tram-sheds in great cities were crowded with anxious relatives who
watched the troops go through, clutching at the hope of a last glimpse
of a beloved face, a few precious moments in which to say farewell.

Yes, the war was coming near!

Derry wrote that he might go at any moment, but hoped for a short
furlough. It was on this hope that Jean lived. She worked tirelessly,
making the much-needed surgical dressings. When Emily tried to get her
to rest, Jean would shake her head.

"Darling, I must. They are bringing the wounded over."

"But you mustn't get too tired."

"I want to be tired. So that I can sleep."

She was finding it hard to sleep. Often she rose and wrote in her
memory book, which was becoming in a sense a diary because she confided
to its pages the things she dared not say to Derry. Some day, perhaps,
she might show him what she had written. But that would be when the
war was over, and Derry had come back safe and sound. Until then she
would have to smile in her letters, and she did not always feel like
smiling!

But that was what Derry called them, "Smiling letters!"

"They smi