I am well. I am wounded. I am in
hospital. I have had no letter from you lately." All of which was struck
out but the welcome words, "I am well." So far then I had not cured the
lad to be killed. Then for weeks nothing. It came to be time again to go
to Canada for the hunting. I wrote the steward to get us four men, as
usual, and Lindsley and I alighted from the rattling train at the club
station in September, 1916, with a mild curiosity to see what Fate had
provided as guides, philosophers and friends to us for two weeks. Paul
Sioui--that was nice--a good fellow Paul; and Josef--I shook hands with
Josef; the next face was a new one--ah, Pierre Beaurame--one calls one's
self that--_on s'appelle comme ca. Bon jour!_ I turned, and got a shock.
The fourth face, at which I looked, was the face of Philippe Martel. I
looked, speechless. And with that the boy laughed. "It is that M'sieur
cannot again cure my leg," answered Philippe, and tapped proudly on a
calf which echoed with a wooden sound.

"You young cuss," I addressed him savagely. "Do you mean to say you have
gone and got shot in that very leg I fixed up for you?"

Philippe rippled more laughter--of pure joy--of satisfaction. "But, yes,
M'sieur le Docteur, that leg _meme_. Itself. In a battle, M'sieur le
Docteur gave me the good leg for a long enough time to serve France. It
was all that there was of necessary. As for now I may not fight again,
but I can walk and portage _comme il faut_. I am _capable_ as a guide.
Is it not, Josef?" He appealed, and the men crowded around to back him
up with deep, serious voices.

"Ah, yes, M'sieur."

"_B'en capable!_"

"He can walk like us others--the same!" they assured me impressively.

Philippe was my guide this year. It was the morning after we reached
camp. "Would M'sieur le Docteur be too busy to look at something?"

I was not. Philippe stood in the camp doorway in the patch of sunlight
where he had sat two years before when I looked over his leg. He sat
down again, in the shifting sunshine, the wooden leg sticking out
straight and pathetic, and began to take the covers off a package. There
were many covers; the package was apparently valuable. As he worked at
it the odors of hemlock and balsam, distilled by hot sunlight, rose
sweet and strong, and the lake splashed on pebbles, and peace that
passes understanding was about us.

"It was in a bad battle in Lorraine," spoke Philippe into the sunshiny
peace, "that I lost M'