A BOWL OF BROTH.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LII, Issue 16098, 11 December 1915, Page 2 (Supplement)

A BOWL OF BROTH.

AN HOSPITAL MIRACLE.

No. 806, 9th Platoon, etc., was very ill— as a man is like to be after soaring skyward, being dumped down on splintered wood and barbed wire, and lying for six hours hazily conscious that a "bit of shell had ploughed a fresh parting in his hair. Curiously enough, he had all but forgotten that crowning incident of his career. The trench, with its oozing sideshis chums huddled and squabbling over a pack of muddled cards—the lowering grey sky— the jagged ridge of earth fifty yards away— were but misty pictures that now and then crossed his unwilling vision. The near and clear things that he lay contemplating were gooseberry bushes, a couple of pear trees, and a half-dug potato patch, with a strip of cabbage, and a bush of white roses. They weren't there—not by two hundred —yet he saw them, and he liked them better than the big sunny room with its dozen beds, wicker chairs, and little tables plentifully provided with books and papers. Nurse Comes. A tall, fair-haired girl in Red Cross uniform stepped filling a tall glass with bronze chrysanthemums, gently patted the blooms Into place, then brought the glass to set it by his bed. That done, the Hon. Leila looked down at him smilingly. " You're better? " die said. Nine men out of ten would have agreed with her, however they felt. Her face and eyes and voice would have lured them into any lie. But the tenth man happened to be Brodie, six feet of him, weak as an infant, but dour as the soil that he had furrowed. * " Na, I'm no'," he answered huskily. The fond falsity of her smile disappeared. She sat down carefully on the edge of his bed. Her sweet face was grave now. "Is there anything you fancy— thing!" she asked. She could not tell him that the doctor had said to her: "Give him any mortal thing— doesn't matter what he takes. He'll get better or he won't. That big chap's like a child—a bit of bannock might do him more good than any stuff 1 can give him." Wi' Peas In It. "Think, now; what 111 get you," she said encouragingly. "A bowl o' broth— peas in it," he said, more huskily. The Hon. Leila "all bit laughed; but the sight of the face on the pillow, with a bluey pallor mastering the tan of it, checked her merriment. "Yon couldn't take—broth," she said seriously. " Could I no'. That's a' you ken. Try me." " I'll—l'll get some." she said dubiously. " Wi' peas in them—thick— tatties." "Oh!" she gasped ; "I'll try, but I never made them." "My mither made them graund," he said, and his voice seemed to come from far away. "Yell no' manage verv \veel, I but I'll tak' them. Syne I'll 'ha© a j smoke."

The Hon. Leila rose. She thought of calling the doctor. Poor Brodie must be going mad. Broth—then a smoke. He would die. Well, if it was to please him, she would do it. His lack-lustre eyes brightened when she brought the bowl—one with a blue pattern. Like the Bowl at Hame. " It's like the ane at hame," he muttered as she raised him. He tried to sup, but his hand fell limplv, and she helped him. " They're no' as gudo as my mither's," he cried, more strong!v this time: "but they're no' bad. Ye'U learn. Hoo did ye no' pit in mair peas? " He supped the last spoonful with much content. " Noo, I'll tak a smoke. Na, gie me my pipe. Thenk ye. Dods. I'll mebbe see my mither yet. Thae broth's dune me gudfl. But mak' them thicker next time. My mither could lat ve see the wey. ' .v lt T W!Vsr, ' thfl pungent smoke that made the Hon. Leila's eyes fill. It was the content in his , scarred face, and the knowledge that she had helped in the working of a miracle. ft nirfilfiill 1 * 7 V 5 V ',. Said the doctor at SSt' wn? th »,. on ««. Oh. he'll be all right. He 11 get " 8 mother to make them for him before long."