ture rose of happy fields, of homes. Would they see them again--

IN this tragedy of nations she had found herself. Found the purpose of
her life. Her art had come into its own--had comforted.

DEATH from a shell might take her--as it took thousands each day--but
she was fulfilling the mission of her soul.

IV

ONE night the Church Hospital lay sleeping. Very softly Janet crept to
the organ loft--softer still she played to the moonlight.

HE was rapidly improving. His wounds had not been serious.
Something--very soft, faint--woke him. For a minute he could not recall
his surroundings--and he rose up--but a sharp pain in his shoulder
brought back the memory of the trenches, of the horror--

I MUST be dying--I hear faint music----

THE moon shone on something white--

AN angel--

FULLY awakening to his surroundings Hugh Brandon realized that it was
not death--not an angel--

HE would go and find out for himself--

JANET barely touched the keys. Softer and softer grew the tones. He came
nearer--fascinated as if by a magic presence.

THEIR eyes met--in the moonlight. They knew that no matter what
happened to the rest of the world--no matter what happened to their own
bodies--their souls were met for all Eternity.

IT was a flash from the unconscious--one of those strange illuminations
which occur perhaps once in a hundred lifetimes.

PLAY on, he whispered. Play for me--for England--whose son I am

* * * * *

AT noon when they had eaten--Hugh and Janet slipped away. She played for
him. The tones were richer than before. Into the sadness had been poured
the burning heat of pure love.

V

THEY had both known what they had thought was love,--among flowers,
dances, the lovely but artificial things of life--

BUT here--among the dying--blood, privation, life divested of its
mantles and laid bare--the true love sprang up between these two.
Something more than love. A perfect understanding of each--like the
treble and the base of a symphony--

IN the still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit in the organ
loft together, speaking the enchanted language only lovers know--made
dearer by the phantom of separation ever near them.

DEAREST, when the Regiment has called me back, play each day at
twilight--the Miserere. If--in the trenches--I shall know your soul is
calling to mine--if, beyond, my soul will drink from the depths of
yours----

SNOW was falling.

GOODBYE