The Captain saw both things.
"What is the 'hard work' they have to do?" she asked,
presently.
"Daisy, you wouldn't like to see it."
"Why, sir?"
"Poor fellows digging and making walls of sand or sods to
shelter them from fire — when every now and then comes a shot
from the enemy's batteries, ploughs up their work, and knocks
over some poor rascal who never gets up again. That's one kind
of hard work."
Daisy's face was intent in its interest; but she only said,
"Please go on."
"Do you like to hear it?"
"Yes, I like to know about it."
"I wonder what Mrs. Randolph would say to me?"
"Please go on, Captain Drummond!"
"I don't know about that. However, Daisy, work in the trenches
is not the hardest thing — nor living wet through or frozen
half through — nor going half fed — about the hardest thing I
know, is in a hurried retreat to be obliged to leave sick and
wounded friends and poor fellows to fall into the hands of the
enemy. That's hard."
"Isn't it hard to fight a battle?"
"You would not like to march up to the fire of the enemy's
guns, and see your friends falling right and left of you —
struck down?"
"Would you?" said Daisy.
"Would I what?"
"Don't _you_ think it is hard, to do that?"
"Not just at the time, Daisy.
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