“Stuff!” said Mrs. Penniman, crisply.  “She’s having a great experience.  Listen!  ’You should see them die here, in all faiths—­Jews, Catholics, Protestants, and very, very many who have never enjoyed the consolation of any religious teachings whatsoever.  But they all die alike, and you may think me dreadful for saying it, but I know their reward will be equal.  I don’t know if I will come out of it myself, but I don’t think about that, because it seems unimportant.  The scheme—­you remember Dave Cowan always talking about the scheme—­the scheme is so big, that dying doesn’t matter one bit if you die trying for something.  I couldn’t argue about this, but I know it and these wonderful boys must know it when they go smiling straight into death.  They know it without any one ever having told them.  Sometimes I get to thinking of my own little set beliefs about a hereafter—­those I used to hold—­and they seem funny to me!’”

“There!” The judge waved triumphantly.  “Now she’s makin’ fun of the church!  That’s what comes of gittin’ in with that fast Army set.”

Mrs. Penniman ignored this.

“’Patricia Whipple feels the same way I do about these matters; more intensely if that were possible.  I had a long talk with her yesterday.  She has been doing a wonderful work in our section.  She is one of us that can stand anything, any sort of horrible operation, and never faint, as some of the nurses have done.  She is apparently at such times a thing of steel, a machine, but she feels intensely when it is over and she lets down.

“’You wouldn’t know her.  Thin and drawn, but can work twenty hours at a stretch and be ready for twenty more next day.  She is on her way up to a first-aid station, which I myself would not be equal to.  It is terrible enough at this base hospital.  For one who has been brought up as she has, gently nurtured, looked after every moment, she is amazing.  And, as I say, she feels as I do about life and death and the absurd little compartments into which we used to pack religion.  She says she expects never to get back home, because the world is coming to an end.  You would not be surprised at her thinking this if you could see what she has to face.  She is a different girl.  We are both different.  We won’t ever be the same again.’”

“Wha’d I tell you?” demanded the judge.

“’The war increases in violence—­dreadful sights, dreadful smells.  I am so glad Merle’s eyes kept him out of it.  He would have been ill fitted for this turmoil.  Wilbur was the one for it.  I saw him a few minutes the other day, on his way to some place I mustn’t write down.  He said:  “Do you know what I wish?” I said:  “No; what do you wish?” He said:  “I wish I was back in the front yard, squirting water on the lawn and flower beds, where no one would be shooting at me, and it was six o’clock and there was going to be fried chicken for supper and one of those deep-dish apple pies without any bottom to it, that you turn upside down and pour maple sirup on.  That’s what I wish."’”