Little Brothers of Peace and Poverty, humble, self-despoiled servants of the rule most rigid in its tenderness, clamouring at the throne of God for a thing of pride, a priceless possession--their country’s honour! Paradox can scarcely go further, it would seem. Yet, even before Mr. Chesterton pointed it out, most of us had long ago accepted the fact that the deeper the truth the more breathless the paradox. Is there an Englishman among us who would lift his voice to-day against the sacred precept: _He that loses his life shall save it_?
“‘J’entends des paroles amies Que je ne comprends pas. Je me sens loin, bien loin, de la patrie.... D’où vient que ces voix me semblent familières?’ ‘Mon père, nous sommes en Angleterre.’”
It is frequently said in letters from the front, by the officer praising his men, or _vice versa_: “A dozen things are being done every day that deserve the Victoria Cross.” But if you speak to one of these heroes of their own deeds, you will invariably get the same answer: “I just did my little bit.”
How immense a satisfaction it must be to feel you’ve done your little bit! And how out of it are the stay-at-homes! Yet we also have our part to play--infinitesimal in comparison, but still, we hope, of use--the minute fragment that may be wanted in the fitting together of the great jigsaw puzzle.
Our first little bit at the Villino when we woke to activity after the stunning of the blow, was obviously to house refugees. We wrote to a friend prominent among the receiving committee, and offered, as a beginning, to undertake twelve peasants out of the thousands of unfortunates flying from the face of the Hun. From that charming but harassed lady we received a grateful acceptance, announcing the arrival of our families that afternoon--hour to be fixed by telegram. We feverishly prepared for their reception. We were ready to shelter five; kind neighbours proposed to take in the other seven. We had a fleet of motor-cars in readiness, and Mrs. MacComfort, our cook, concocted large jars of coffee and other articles of food likely to be relished of the Belgian palate. No telegram arrived; but to make up for it, our telephone rang ceaselessly with anxious inquiries from the assisting neighbours--inquiries which very naturally became rather irate as the hours went by, while we took upon ourselves the apologies of the guilty.