A YOUNG Irish girl, speaking of her brother who had
been wounded twice, and had received no furlough,
said: "I am always afraid that word may come he is
killed, and I don't know how I could tell my mother."
She spoke of others of her young companions who were
at the front. Then, referring to a conversation in which
they were speaking of the end of the war, she said,
"A friend of mine said, 'Yes, you will see the end of the
war, but I won't.' So many feel that way."

Will Irwin said, "I was photographing a regiment
as it marched to Verdun, and a French youth called
out, 'You are photographing the dead.'"

Then the Irish girl spoke of one and another of her
friends who had gone, feeling that they would never
see England again, and there came a look into her eyes
that was beyond tears, and reminded me of something
I had seen in the railway station at Manchester. When
a train full of soldiers was just pulling out, "Such a
train goes every day toward the South," a man re-
marked to me. But as the train left, I looked at the
host of women and girls who had come to bid farewell.
I saw almost no tears, but there was a look of tender,
yearning admiration, almost reverence, and above all
of eager longing and mothering. But no tears, and when
I saw the look in the eyes of the young Irish girl, there
came to my mind the words, "And He shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes"; only not as I had un-
derstood the words. Here is a people beyond tears.

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