It was sitting on a housetop overlooking Jerusalem on the last day of our visit to the Holy City that we heard in detail the story of the official entry of the British forces. The woman who told us had spent the years of the war as well as most of her life in Jerusalem though she is an American. Her children were born there, she speaks many of its languages, she knows its people and she loves it. She is one of the women appointed by Lord Samuel, the High Commissioner, to serve on an advisory council to assist the government in establishing policies for the protection and betterment of women. She is the Christian representative, the others being Mohammedan and Hebrew. The story, as she told it, revealing all the fear and anxiety of those hard years, the pressure of uncertainty, the daily, hourly struggle for food with sufficient nourishment to keep the children and the old people alive, made us feel again, as so many times before, the sharp stab of the fact that it is not those who bear arms alone who go to war. Little faces, whose right it is to be round and rosy, covered with smiles, must be pale and wan, yes, must even forget how to smile, as millions of little ones have forgotten since nineteen hundred and fourteen. Old faces, whose right it is to bear the marks of peace and contentment after the struggle of the years, must be left instead with marks of pain and anguish as have millions of the aged since nineteen hundred and fourteen. He is a cruel monster, War, and if man, after what he has seen these past years, does not imprison him, starve him, and leave him to die, then man deserves the bitterness of the fate that will be his. [Illustration: When we opened our eyes, the Nile lay almost at our feet.]