eserve. As we rattled
over the railroad crossing and took the road, the men made facetious
good-byes to the scene of their six weeks' training.

Soldiers like movement--we were on the move. Every one's spirits were up
and the animals were frisky and high-stepping in the brisk air. Chains
rattled as some of the lead pairs mussed up the traces and were brought
back into alignment by the drivers. The cannoneers, muffled in great
coats, hung on the caisson seats and chided the drivers.

We were off. Where we were going, seemed to make no difference. Rumours
could never be depended upon, so none of us knew our destination, but
all of us hoped that we were going into action. Every man in the battery
felt that the schooling was over and that the battery, if given a
chance, could prove that it needed no further training.

At the same time, some of the men expressed the fear that we were on our
way to some other training camp for some post-graduate course in firing
or maybe for the purpose of instructing other less advanced batteries.
The final consensus of opinion was, however, that "beefing" about our
prospects wouldn't change them, and that anything was better than
staying in the same place forever.

Two miles from the post the road crossed the railroad tracks. The
crossing bore a name as everything else did in that land of poetical
nomenclature. There was only one house there. It was an old grey stone
cottage, its walls covered with vines, and its garden full of shrubbery.
It was occupied by three persons, the old crossing-tender, his wife--and
one other. That other was Jeanne. Jeanne was their daughter.

We had seen her many times as she opened the crossing gates for traffic
on the road. She was about sixteen years old. Her ankles were encased in
thick grey woollen hose of her own knitting and, where they emerged from
her heavy wooden shoes, it looked as if every move in her clumsy
footgear might break them off.

As we approached the crossing, Gallagher, who rode one of the lead pair
on piece No. 2, began to give vent to his fine Irish tenor. Gallagher
was singing:

"We were sailing along
On Moonlight bay,
You could hear the voices ringing,
They seemed to say,
'You have stolen my heart
Now, don't go away,'
As we kissed and said good-bye
On Moonlight bay."

It would almost have seemed that there was need of some explanation for
Gallagher's musical demonstration on this cold, dark