Anderson's voice went to a whisper, and he looked pityingly at Lenore.
"That hospital was a barn. No doctors! Too early.… The nurses weren't in sight. I met one later, an', poor girl! she looked ready to drop herself!… We found Jim in one of the little rooms. No heat! It was winter there.… Only a bed!… Jim lay on the floor, dead! He'd fallen or pitched off the bed. He had on only his underclothes that he had on—when he—left home.… He was stiff—an' must have—been dead—a good while."
Lenore held out her trembling hands. "Dead—Jim dead—like that!" she faltered.
"Yes. He got pneumonia," replied Anderson, hoarsely. "The camp was full of it."
"But—my God! Were not the—the poor boys taken care of?" implored Lenore, faintly.
"It's a terrible time. All was done that could be done!"
"Then—it was all—for nothing?"
"All! All! Our boy an' many like him—the best blood of our country—Western blood—dead because … because …"
Anderson's voice failed him.
"Oh, Jim! Oh, my brother!… Dead like a poor neglected dog! Jim—who enlisted to fight—for—"