"I would like to know in what way soldiers have a hard time?" "Well, Daisy, to begin, with, a soldier can't do what he has a mind." "Not about anything?" "Well--no; not unless he gets leave. I am only at Melbourne now because I have got leave; and I must go when my leave is up. A soldier does not belong to himself." "To whom does he belong?' "To his commander! He must go and come, do or not do things, just as his General bids him; and ask no questions." "Ask no questions?" said Daisy. "No; only do what he is ordered." "But why mayn't he ask questions?" "That isn't his business. He has nothing to do with the reason of things; all he has got to do is his duty. The _reason_ is his General's duty to look after." "But suppose he had a very good General--then that wouldn't be much of a hardship," said Daisy. "Well, that is a very material point," said the Captain. "_Suppose_ he has a good General--as you say; that would make a great difference, certainly." "Is that all, Capt. Drummond?" "Not quite all." "What else?" "Well, Daisy, a soldier, even under a good General, is often ordered to do hard things." "What sort of things?" "What do you think," said the Captain lolling comfortably on the green bank, "of camping out under the rain-clouds--with no bed but stones or puddles of mud and wet leaves--and rain pouring down all night, and hard work all day; and no better accommodations for week in and week out?" "But Capt. Drummond!" said Daisy horrified, "I thought soldiers had tents?" "So they do--in fine weather--" said the Captain. "But just where the hardest work is to do, is where they can't carry their tents." "Couldn't that be prevented?" "I'm afraid not." "I should think they'd get sick?" "_Think_ they would! Why they do, Daisy, by hundreds and hundreds. What then? A soldier's life isn't his own; and if he has to give it up in a hospital instead of on the field, why it's good for some other fellow." So this it was, not to belong to oneself! Daisy looked on the soldier before her who had run, or would run, such risks, very tenderly; but nevertheless the child was thinking her own thoughts all the while. The Captain saw both things. "What is the 'hard work' they have to do?" she asked presently. "Daisy, you wouldn't like to see it." "Why, sir?" "Poor fellows digging and making walls of sand or sods to shelter them from fire--when every now and then comes a shot from the enemy's batteries, ploughs up their work, and knocks over some poor rascal who never gets up again. That's one kind of hard work." Daisy's face was intent in its interest; but she only said, "Please go on." "Do you like to hear it?" "Yes, I like to know about it." "I wonder what Mrs. Randolph would say to me?" "Please go on, Capt. Drummond!"