y he rolled on his face and groaned aloud.

"Oh God!" his soul cried out, "why do such things have to be? If there
really is a God why does He let such awful things happen to a pure good
girl? The same old bitter question that had troubled the hard young days
of his own life. Could there be a God who cared when bitterness was in so
many cups? Why had God let the war come?"

Sometime in the night the tumult in his brain and heart subsided and he
fell into a profound sleep. The next thing he knew the kindly roughness
of his comrades wakened him with shakes and wet sponges flying through
the air, and he opened his consciousness to the world again and heard the
bugle blowing for roll call. Another day had dawned grayly and he must
get up. They set him on his feet, and bantered him into action, and he
responded with his usual wit that put them all in howls of laughter, but
as he stumbled into place in the line in the five o'clock dawning he
realized that a heavy weight was on his heart which he tried to throw
off. What did it matter what Ruth Macdonald did with her life? She was
nothing to him, never had been and never could be. If only he had not
written that letter all would now be as it always had been. If only she
had not written her letter! Or no! He put his hand to his breast pocket
with a quick movement of protection. Somehow he was not yet ready to
relinquish that one taste of bright girl friendliness, even though it had
brought a stab in its wake.

He was glad when the orders came for him and five other fellows to tramp
across the camp to the gas school and go through two solid hours of
instruction ending with a practical illustration of the gas mask and a
good dose of gas. It helped to put his mind on the great business of war
which was to be his only business now until it or he were ended. He set
his lips grimly and went about his work vigorously. What did it matter,
anyway, what she thought of him? He need never answer another letter,
even if she wrote. He need not accept the package from the post office.
He could let them send it back--refuse it and let them send it back, that
was what he could do! Then she might think what she liked. Perhaps she
would suppose him already gone to France. Anyhow, he would forget her! It
was the only sensible thing to do.

Meanwhile the letter had flown on its way with more than ordinary
swiftness, as if it had known that a force was seeking to bring it back
again. The Y.M.C.A.