She lived at the outbreak of war with her father and mother.

Her brother had been killed at Passchendaele, and Mary's interest in life had vanished with him.
But all through the winter she had nursed her father night and day through a horrible illness.

Often, as Elizabeth had now discovered, in the bitterest cold of the winter, she had had no bed but the flagstones of the kitchen.

Not a word of complaint--and a few shillings for both of them to live upon! At last the father died.

And the night he died Mary staggered across to the wretched cottage of a couple of old-age pensioners opposite.
'I must rest a bit,' she said, and sitting down in a chair by the fire she fainted.