But the officer was engaged elsewhere. While they were discussing the matter, a door opened, and a young girl dressed in the uniform of a V. A. D. (Voluntary Aid Detachment) appeared.
“What is it, sergeant?” she inquired, in a soft but rather tired voice.
The sergeant explained, while she listened with mild interest. Then Barry took up the tale, and proceeded to dilate upon the wretched condition of his comrades, out in the icy rain. But his story moved the V. A. D. not at all. She had seen too much of the real misery and horrors of war. Barry began to feel discouraged, and indeed a little ashamed of himself.
“You see, we have just come over,” he said in an apologetic tone, “and we don't know much about war yet.”
“You are Canadians?” cried the girl, a new interest dawning in her eyes. As she came into the light, Barry noticed that they were brown, and that they were very lustrous.
“I love the Canadians,” she exclaimed. “My brother was a liaison artillery officer at Ypres; with them, at the time of the gas, you know. He liked them immensely.” Her voice was soft and sad.
Unconsciously Barry let his eyes fall to the black band on her arm.
“He was with the Canadians, too, when he was killed at Armentieres, three months ago.”
“Killed!” exclaimed Barry. “Oh, I am so sorry for you.”
“I had two brothers,” she went on, in her gentle even tone. “One was killed at Landrecies, on the retreat from Mons, you know.”