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Now to this business, the noble game of wiping the Hun-stain from the earth. Bill, with the hair cropped shorter than ever his folks knew him at home, with lines about his eyes setting the man-stamp on his face, gone again "somewhere into France," with well nigh all the world save honor in a fair way to be lost to him. Golden-Eyes, with her heart belted tight to the last hole, fares her hard-worked little way though the channels a woman may serve in. Once beside the road, in the shadow of a purple shadow of piled clouds, the Red Cross on her ambulance and on the sleeves of the hurrying, sure-fingered, steel-hatted men who dodged about among the wounded, showing dim in the splendid half-light, she sang the song that we on this side of "over-seas" are singing every time we read our boys are going over the top to triumph—"The Star-Spangled Banner."
Sang it clear and high and "cheery-o" in a field of bending red poppies like blood on gold, the blood on the pure-gold of our young soldiers' breasts, and while white faces lifted and grinned in satisfaction, she saw in the struggling, piled cloud-silhouette, her "Bill" roaring at the head of her men, "Come on fellows; you know where we're going from here!"
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