"Goodbye," she said, "and if I leave here soon, I promise to let you know."

And Barry rode away, his heart in such a turmoil as he had never known.

In his ears lingered the music of that soft voice, and his eyes saw a bewildering complexity of dancing ringlets and lustrous glances, until he drew up at the rear of the column and found himself riding once more beside his friend, the M. O.

"Congratulations, old man," said the doctor. "She's a blossom, all right. Cheer up; you may find her bending over your white face some day, holding your hand, or smoothing your brow, in the approved V. A. D.

manner."

"Oh, shut up, doc," said Barry with quite unusual curtness. "She's not that kind of a girl."

"Ah, who knows!" said the doctor. "Who knows!"

At the railway station, the battalion was halted, awaiting the making up of their train, the departure of which was delayed by the incoming hospital train from up the line. They had not long to wait.

"Here she is, boys!" called out a soldier. And into the station slowly rolled that hospital train, with its freight of wounded men, mutilated, maimed, broken. Its windows were crowded with faces, white as their swathings, worn, spent, deep-lined, from which looked forth eyes, indifferent, staring, but undaunted and indomitable.

Gradually, with stately movement, as befitted its noble burden, the train came to rest immediately opposite the battalion. With grave, fascinated, horror-stricken faces the men of the battalion stood rigid and voiceless gazing at that deeply moving spectacle. Before their eyes were being paraded the tragic, pathetic remnants of a gallant regiment, which but a few weeks before had stood where they now stood, vital with life, tingling with courage. At their country's bidding they had ascended that Holy Mount of Sacrifice, to offer upon the altar of the world's freedom their bodies as a living sacrifice unto God, holy and acceptable. Now, their offering being made, they were being borne back helpless, bruised, shattered but unconquered and eternally glorious.

Silently the two companies gazed at each other across the intervening space. Then from the window of the train a soldier thrust a bandaged head and bandaged arm.

"Hello there, Canada!" he cried, waving the arm. Instantly, as if he had touched a hidden spring, from the battalion's thousand throats there broke a roar of cheers that seemed to rock the rafters of the station building.

Again, again, and yet again! As if they could never exhaust the burden of their swelling emotions, they roared forth their cheers, waving caps and rifles high in the air, while down their cheeks poured, unheeded and unhindered, a rain of tears.

"Canada! Canada! Canada!" they cried. "Oh, you Canadians! Alberta!

Alberta!"

Feebly came the answering cheers, awkwardly waved the bandaged hands and arms.

Then the battalion broke ranks and flinging rifles and kitbags to the ground, they rushed across the tracks, eager to bring their tribute of pride and love to their brothers from their own country, far across the sea.

"Malcolm! Hello, Malcolm!" cried a voice from a window of the train, as the noise had somewhat subsided. "Hey, Malcolm, here you are!" cried a wounded man, raising himself from his cot to the window.

Malcolm Innes turned, scanned the train, then rushed across the tracks to the window and clung fast to it.

It was his brother, Ewen.

"Is it yourself, Ewen, and are you hurted bad?" cried the boy, all unconscious of his breaking voice and falling tears. They clung together for some little time in silence.

"Are you much hurted, Ewen? Tell me the God's truth," again said Malcolm.

"Not much," said Ewen. "True as death, I'm tellin' you. My arm is broke, that's all. We had a bad time of it, but, man, we gave them hell, you bet. Oh, it was great!"

Then again the silence fell between them. There seemed to be nothing to say.

"Here, stand back there! You must get back, you know, men!"

An N. C. O. of the R. A. M. C. tried to push Malcolm back from the window.

"Here, you go to hell," cried Malcolm fiercely. "It's my brother I've got."

The N. C. O., widely experienced in these tragic scenes, hesitated a moment. An officer, coming up behind him, with a single glance took in the situation.

"My boy," he said kindly, placing his hand on Malcolm's arm, "we want to get these poor chaps as soon as possible where they will be comfortable."

Malcolm sprang back at once, saluting.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Certainly, sir." And backing across the tracks, stood looking across at the window from which his brother, wearied with his effort, had disappeared.

Meantime the R. A. M. C. were busy with their work. With marvellous rapidity and speed the train was unloaded of its pathetic freight, the carrying cases into ambulances and the walking cases into cars and wagons.

"Good-bye, Mac," called a voice as a car was driving off. It was Ewen again. The wounded man spoke to the driver, who immediately pulled up and swung over to the platform where Malcolm was standing.

"Oh, are you sure, Ewen, you are goin' to be all right? Man, you look awful white."

"All right, Mac. You bet I will. It's only my arm," said Ewen, his brave, bright words in pathetic contrast to his white face.

At this point Barry came rushing along.

"Why, Ewen! My poor fellow!" he cried, throwing his arm about the wounded man's shoulder. "What is it?"

"My arm, sir," said the boy, adding some words in a low tone. "But I'm all right," he said brightly. "You'll write my mother, sir, and tell her? You'll know what to say."

"Surely I will. You'll be all right, old boy, God bless you! Good luck, Ewen!"

Then leaning over the boy, he added in a low voice, "Remember you are not all alone. God is with you. You won't forget that!"

"I won't, sir. I know it well," said Ewen earnestly.

Most of the stretcher cases had been hurried away. Only a few of the more seriously wounded remained. As Barry turned away from the car, he saw the medical officer and sergeant major approaching him.

"A terrible business," said Barry, in a horror-stricken voice. "Splendid chaps. How plucky they are!"

The M. O. made no reply, but coming close to Barry, he put his arm through his, the sergeant major taking him by the other arm.

"I say, Barry, old chap," said the M. O. in a grave voice, calling him for the first time by his first name. "There is some one here that you know well."

"Some one I know," said Barry, standing still and looking from one to the other.

"Ay, sir. Some one we all know and greatly respect," replied the sergeant major.

"Not--not--oh, not my father!"

The M. O. nodded.

"Bad, doctor? Not dying, doctor?" His face was white even in spite of his tan. His hands closed about the doctor's arm in a grip that reached to the bone.

"No, not dying, Barry, but in a bad way, I fear."

"Take me," muttered Barry, in a dazed way, and they moved together rapidly across the platform.