all. Then came this Y. M. C. A. work, and we thought that
we would like to come over here and do for all the boys in the army
what we could not do for our own. And now wife and I are here, and
every time I do something for a wounded boy in this hospital, I feel as
if I were serving my own dear lads."

"And you are," I said. "And if the mothers and fathers of America know
that men and women of your type are here looking after their lads it
will give them a new sense of comfort and you will be serving them
also."

"And my wife," he added. "You know the boys up at ---- call her 'The
Woman with the Sandwiches and Sympathy.' She got her name because one
night a drunken soldier staggered into the hut and asked for her. He
didn't remember her name, but she had darned his socks, she had written
letters for him, she had mothered him, she had tried to help him. They
wanted to put the poor lad out, but he insisted upon seeing my wife.
Finally, in desperation, seeing that he couldn't think of her name, he
said, 'Wan' see that woman wif sandwiches and sympathy,' and after that
the name stuck."

[Illustration: "The boys call her 'The Woman with Sandwiches and
Sympathy.'"]

And as we knelt in prayer together there in the hut and I arose to
clasp his hand in sympathy, I knew that through service there in
France, through service to your sons, mothers and fathers of America,
this brave man, as well as his wife, were solacing their grief. They
were conquering sorrow in service, thank God.

Yes, there are Silhouettes of Sorrow, but these silhouettes always have
back of them the gold of a new dawn of hope. They are black
silhouettes, but they have a glorious background of sunrise and hope.
I tell of no sorrows here that are not triumphant sorrows, such as will
hearten the whole world to bear its sorrow well when it comes, pray God.

Up at ---- on the beautiful Loire is my friend the secretary. It is a
humble position, and there are not many soldiers there, but he is
serving and brothering, tenderly and faithfully, the few that are
there. No one would ever think of him as a hero, but I do. He, too,
is a hero who is conquering sorrow in service.

His only daughter had been accepted for Y. M. C. A. service in France.
She was all he had. He was a minister at home, and had given up his
church for the duration of the war. Both were looking forward with
keen anticipation to her coming to France. Then came the cable of her