ch, looking to the north, toward
the valley of the Somme, he could see on the horizon the dull gleam of
red that marked the battle line, and he could hear the faint
reverberations of the big guns that told of the fighting still in
progress. But here it was very quiet, very peaceful, very beautiful.
For the first time since his entrance into the great struggle he
longed for an end of the strife, and a return to the calm, sweet,
lovely things of life. But he did not permit this mood to remain long
with him. He knew that the war must go on until the spirit that
launched it was subdued and crushed, and that he must go with it to
whatever end God might will.

He found Aleck there. He had felt that he would, and while he was
delighted he was not greatly surprised. There was little emotion
manifested at the meeting of the two boys. The horrors of war were too
close and too vivid yet for that. But the fact that they were glad to
look again into one another's eyes admitted of no doubt. Aleck had
recovered the use of his voice, but he was still too weak to talk at
any length. The bayonet wound in his shoulder had healed nicely, but
his shattered knee had come terribly near to costing him his life.
There had been infection. Amputation of the leg had been imminent. The
surgeons and the nurses had struggled with the case for weeks and had
finally conquered.

"I shall still have two legs," said Aleck jocosely, "and I'll be glad
of that; but I'm afraid this one will be a weak brother for a long
time. I won't be kicking football this fall, anyway."

"It's the fortune of war," replied Pen.

"I know. I'm not complaining, and I'm not sorry. I've had my chance.
I've seen war. I've fought for France. I'm satisfied."

He lay back on the pillow, pale-faced, emaciated, weak; but in his
eyes was a glow of patriotic pride in his own suffering, and pride in
the knowledge that he had entered the fight and had fought bravely and
well.

"America ought to be proud of you," said Pen, "and of all the other
boys from the States who have fought and suffered, and of those who
have died in this war. I told you you'd be no coward when the time
came to fight, and, my faith! you were not. I can see you now, with a
smile and a wave of the hand plunging into that bloody chaos."

"Thank you, comrade! I may never fight again, but I can go back home
now and face the flag and not be ashamed."

"Indeed, you can! And when will you go?"

"I don't know. The