Away in one of the wards a gramophone is playing "Mother Machree," and the little nurse, who hums the tune to herself as she leans over each man to see his label, sees a tear crawling through the grey stubble on one's cheek. He is old and Irish, and had not hoped to hear Irish tunes and to see fair women again. But he is ashamed of his emotion, and he tells a little lie. "Sure, an' it's rainin' outside, nurse," he says. And the nurse, who knows the difference between a raindrop and a tear--for was she not standing on the step five minutes ago, admiring the stars and the moon?--knows her part well, and plays it. "I thought I heard the rain dripping down on the porch just now," she says, "I hope you poor men did not get wet," and she goes on to her next patient. * * * * * How they love those days in hospital! How the great rough men love to be treated like babies, to be petted and scolded, ordered about and praised! How grand it is to see the flowers, to feel one's strength returning, to go for drives and walks, to find a field that is not pitted by shell holes! And how cheerful they all are, these grown-up babies! The other day I opened the door of the hospital and discovered a "convoy" consisting of three legless and two armless men, trying to help each other up the six low steps, and shouting with laughter at their efforts. And one of them saw the pity on my face, for he grinned. "Don't you worry about us," he said. "I wouldn't care if I 'ad no arms nor eyes nor legs, so long as I was 'ome in Blighty again. Why"--and his voice dropped as he let me into the secret--"I've 'ad a li'l boy born since I went out to the front, an' I never even seed the li'l beggar yet. Gawd, we in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain't killed ought to be 'appy and bright like what we is." And it is the happiness of all these men that makes hospital a very beautiful place, for nowhere can you find more courage and cheerfulness than among these fellows with their crutches and their bandages. There was only one man--Bill Stevens--who seemed despondent and miserable, and we scarcely wondered--he was blind, and lay in bed day after day, with a bandage round his head, the only blind man in the hospital. He was silent and morbid, and would scarcely mutter a word of thanks when some man came right across the ward on his crutches to do him a trifling service, but he had begged to be allowed to stay in the big ward until the time came for him to go off to a special hostel for the men who have lost their sight. And the men who saw him groping about helplessly in broad daylight forgave him his surliness, and ceased to wonder at his despondency. But even Bill Stevens was to change, for there came a day when he received a letter. "What's the postmark?" he demanded. "Oxford," said the nurse. "Shall I read it to you?"