"Rome used to be nice," she admitted, "and of course the Alps is high. But everybody knows they can't hold a candle to the United States, all in all." After that we worked on without saying anything. It seemed like pretty near everything had been said. Pretty soon the girls had their part all done. And they stood up, looking like rainbows in their pretty furs and flowers. "Miss Calliope," Ina Clare said to me, "come on with us to get some things for to-night." "Go with you and get out of doing any more work?" says I, joyful. "Well, won't I!" "But we are working," cried Ruth. "We've got oceans of things to collect." "Well," says I, "come along. Sometimes I can't tell work from play and this is one of the times." I thought that more than once while I went round with them in Ruth's big car late that afternoon. How do you tell work from play when both are the right kind? How do we know that some day play won't be only just the happiest kind of work, done joyful and together? "I guess you're going to miss this kind of work when Red Cross stops," I said to them. Ruth is tall and powerful and sure, and she drives as if it was only one of the things she knows about. "Miss it?" she said. "We'll be _lost_--simply. What we're going to do I don't know." "We've been some use in the world," said Clare, "and now we've got to go back to being nothing but happy." "We'll have to play bridge five nights a week to keep from being bored to tears," says Irene--that is pretty but she thinks with her scalp and no more. Ruth, that's the prettiest of them all, she shook her head. "We can't go back to that," she said. "At least, I _won't_ go back to that. But what I'm going on to do I don't know." What were they going on to do? That was what I kept wondering all the while we gathered up the finishing touches of what we wanted for the stage that night. "Now the Greek flag," said Ruth finally. "Mis' Sykes said we could get that at Mis' Poulaki's." That was Achilles' mother, and none of us had ever met her. We went in, real interested. And there in the middle of the floor sat Mis' Poulaki looking over the basket of cotton rags that the Red Cross had sent down by Achilles to old Mis' Herman. "Oh," says little Mis' Poulaki, "you sent me such grand clothes for my rags. Thank you--thank you!" She had tears in her eyes, and there wasn't one of us would tell her Achilles had just plain stole them for her. "It is everything," she said to us in her broken talk. "Achilles, he had each week two dollar from Mr. Sykes. But it is not enough. I have hard time. Hard." Over the lamp shelf I saw, just then, the picture of a big, handsome man; and out of being kind of embarrassed, I asked who he was. "Oh," says Mis' Poulaki, "he's Achilles' grandfather--the father of my boy's father. He was officer of the Greek gover'ment," she added, proud. "He taught my boy a piece to speak--something all the Greek boys learn."