Yet, as I look back upon it, my chief impression of that long day is an impression, first, of endless hospital huts and marquees, with their rows of beds, in which the pale or flushed faces are generally ready--unless pain or weariness forbid--as a visitor ventures timidly near, to turn and smile in response to the few halting words of sympathy or inquiry which are all one can find to say; and, next, of such a wealth of skill, and pity, and devotion poured out upon this terrible human need, as makes one thank God for doctors, and nurses, and bright-faced V.A.D.'s. After all, one tremblingly asks oneself, in spite of the appalling facts of wounds, and death, and violence in which the human world is now steeped, is it yet possible, is it yet true, that the ultimate thing, the final power behind the veil--to which at least this vast linked spectacle of suffering and tenderness, here in this great camp, testifies--is _not_ Force, but Love? Is this the mysterious message which seems to breathe from these crowded wards--to make them _just_ bearable. Let me recollect the open door of an operating theatre, and a young officer, quite a boy, lying there with a bullet in his chest, which the surgeons were just about to try and extract. The fine, pale features of the wounded man, the faces of the surgeon and the nurses, so intent and cheerfully absorbed, the shining surfaces and appliances of the white room--stamp themselves on memory. I recollect, too, one John S----, a very bad case, a private. "Oh, you must come and see John S----," says one of the Sisters. "We get all the little distractions we can for John. Will he recover? Well, we thought so--but"--her face changes gravely--"John himself seems to have made up his mind lately. He knows--but he never complains." Knows what? We go to see him, and he turns round philosophically from his tea. "Oh, I'm all right--a bit tired--that's all." And then a smile passes between him and his nurse. He has lost a leg, he has a deep wound in his back which won't heal, which is draining his life away--poor, poor John S----! Close by is a short, plain man, with a look of fevered and patient endurance that haunts one now to think of. "It's my eyes. I'm afraid they're getting worse. I was hit in the head, you see. Yes, the pain's bad--sometimes." The nurse looks at him anxiously as we pass, and explains what is being tried to give relief. This devotion of the nurses--how can one ever say enough of it! I recall the wrath of a medical officer in charge of a large hospital at Rouen. "Why don't they give more Red Crosses to the _working nurses_? They don't get half enough recognition. I have a nurse here who has been twelve months in the operating theatre. She ought to have a V.C.!--It's worth it."