When she spoke, it seemed as if some subtle thought-current between their minds had put the subject of his dreams into the child's mind.
"Do you reckon," the child said, curiously, "that Gertrude is havin' _her_ supper now ?" The Union officer looked up with eyes that mutely blessed her.
"Yes, dear, I was thinking of her--and her mother." Again he was silent for a space, and when he spoke, his voice was dreamy, tender, as he seemed to look with unseeing eyes far into the Northland where dwelt the people of his heart.
"Do you know, Cary, this war for us, the men, may be a hell, but what is it for those we leave at home?
The women! Who wait--and watch--and too often watch in vain.

_We_ have the excitement of it--the rush--the battles--and we think that ours is the harder part when, in reality, we make our loved ones' lives a deeper, blacker hell than our own.

Theirs to watch and listen with the love hunger in their hearts, month in, month out and often without a word! Theirs to starve on the crusts of hope! Waiting--always waiting! Hunting the papers for the thing they dread to find; a name among the missing.

A name among the dead! Good Heaven! When I think of it sometimes--" Morrison dropped his head between his clenched fists and groaned.
"Yes, yes, old fellow, I know," the other man answered, for in truth he _did_ know, "but I want you to remember that for you the crusts of hope will some day be the bread of life--and love." Slowly the Northerner's face came up out of his hands and he seemed to take heart again.

After all, he had led a charmed life so far--perhaps the God of Battles had written his name among those who would some day go back to live the life for which the Almighty made them.