The Valley of Vision | Page 7

the
scattered families, the shelterless children, the desolate and broken
hearts. This is what Germany has inflicted upon mankind in order to
realize her robber-dream!
Yet the City of Refuge, being human, has its bright spots and its bits of
compensation. Here is one, out of many.
The chief nurse, a young Dutch lady of charming face and manners,
serving as a volunteer under the sacred sign of the Red Cross, comes in,
one morning, to make her report to the commandant.
"Well," he says, disguising in his big voice of command the warm
admiration which he feels for the lady, "what is the trouble to-day?
Speak up."
"Nothing, sir," she answers calmly. "Everything is going on pretty well.
No new cases of measles--those in hospital improving. The only thing
that bothers me is the continual complaint about that Mrs. Van
Orley--you remember her, a thin, dark little person. She is melancholy
and morose, quarrels all the time, says some one has stolen her children.
The people near her in the barracks complain that she disturbs them at
night, moans and talks aloud in her sleep, jumps up and runs down the
corridor laughing or crying: 'Here they are!' They don't believe she ever
had any children. They think she is crazy and want her put out. But I
don't agree with that. I think she has had children, and now she has
dreams."
"Send her away," growls the commandant; "send her to a sanatorium!
This camp is not a lunatic asylum."

"But," interposes the nurse in her most discreet voice, "she is really a
very nice woman. If you would allow me to take her on as a housemaid
in the general hospital, I think I could make something out of her; at
least I should like to try."
"Have your own way," says the commandant, relenting; "you always do.
Now tell me the next trouble. You have something more up your sleeve,
I'm sure."
"Babies," she replies demurely; "two babies from Amsterdam. Lost,
somehow or other, in the flight. No trace of their people. A family in
Zaandam has been taking care of them, but can't afford it any longer.
So the Amsterdam committee has sent them here."
The commandant has listened, his cheeks growing redder and redder,
his eyes rounder and more prominent. He springs up and paces the floor
in wrath.
"Babies!" he cries stormily. "By all the gods, da--those
Amsterdammers! Excuse me, but this is too much. Do they think this is
a foundling asylum? or a nursing home? Babies! What in Heaven's
name am I to do with them? Babies! Where are those babies?"
"Just outside, and very nice babies indeed," says the nurse, opening the
hall door and giving a soft call.
Enter a slim black-haired boy of about three and a half years and a
plump golden-haired girl about a year younger. They toddle to the
nurse and snuggle against her blue dress and white apron.
Smiling she guides them toward the commandant and says: "Here they
are, sir. How do you like them?"
That terrific personage has been suddenly transformed from haircloth
into silk. He beams, and pulling out his fat gold watch, coos like a
hoarse dove: "Look here, kinderen, come and hear the bells in my
tick-tock!"
Presently he has one of them leaning against the inside of each knee,
listening ardently to the watch.
"What do you think of that!" he says. "What is your name, youngster?"
"Hendrik," answers the boy, looking up.
"Hendrik _what?_ You have another name, haven't you?"
The boy shakes his head and looks puzzled, as if the thought of two
names were too much for him. _"Hendrik,"_ he repeats more clearly
and firmly.

"And what is her name?" asks the commandant, patting the little girl.
_"Sooss,"_ answers the boy. "Mama say _'ickle angel.'_ Hendrik say
_Sooss."_
All effort to get any more information from the children was fruitless.
They were too small to remember much, and what they did remember
was of their own size--only very little things, of no importance except
to themselves. The commandant looks at the nurse quizzically.
"Now, miss, you have unloaded these vague babies on me. What do
you propose that I should do with them? Adopt them?"
"Not yet, anyhow," she answers, smiling broadly. "Let us take them up
to the camp. I'll bet we can find some one there to look after them.
What do you say, sir?"
"Well, well," he sighs, "have your own way as usual! Just ring that bell
for the automobile, _als't-Ublieft."_
In the busy sewing-room the two children are standing up on one of the
tables. The commandant has an arm around each of them, for they are a
little frightened by so much noise and so many eyes looking at them.
The