"Now, Nancarrow," said the doctor, "you have talked enough. You're getting excited as it is, and we want you back at the front."
"I will say this," said the American, holding out his hand to Bob, "you have given me something to think about, and I will tell the Americans what you have said."
"Nancarrow, it's a nice day; it might be summer. I want you to get out." It was the doctor who spoke. "Yes, I know you feel weak, but one hour in the sunshine will do you more good than all the medicine ever invented."
"I can hardly bear to move my arm yet," said Bob; "and I am as weak as a kitten."
"Yes, I know; but, come, you must get out."
Five minutes later Bob had been taken to a sheltered spot, where he sat rejoicing in the warm rays of the sun. Close by was the great barn-like building, in which many hundreds of wounded men lay, and where scores of brave women were giving their lives to nurse the men who had been fighting for their country.
In the near distance, too, he saw several like himself who were convalescent, and who were drinking in the pure country air and rejoicing in the warm sunlight.
During the last three days he had been able to read, and found that people in the home country had been thinking of those away at the war. Literally tons of periodicals, novels, and other light literature had been forwarded to them; while on every hand were evidences of the fact that millions at home, although they were unable to fight, were anxious to help those who could.
Although it was a scene of suffering, and although many of the sights in the hospital were terrible beyond words, all was cheerfulness and hope. Laughter was heard on every hand; jests were bandied in every direction; all thoughts of differences in nationality were sunk in the common cause of humanity.
"A week or two more," thought Bob, "and I shall be at it again."
A copy of an English newspaper, several days old, lay by his side. He took it up and began to read listlessly. The paper had been sent from Lancashire and contained letters from soldiers who had gone from that county. One letter struck him forcibly: it was headed "Back to Hell." "Dear mother," the soldier wrote, "I am alive and well, but I have had a terrible time. Four days and nights I have been fighting without ever having time to change my clothes. Never once during that time did I take off my shoes. It was simply fight, fight, all the time. Our chaps were just worn out, and so were ordered away to rest for a day or two. That is why I am here and have time to write to you. To-morrow I am going back to Hell; but I am going willingly, because I know I am wanted there."