e. Meantime the long separation of miles, and the creeping days,
gave him a feeling of desolation such as he had never experienced before.
He began to grow introspective. He fancied that perhaps he had
overestimated Ruth's friendship for him. The dear memories he had
cherished during the voyage were brought out in the nightwatches and
ruthlessly reviewed, until his own shy hope that the light in her eyes
had been for him began to fade, and in its place there grew a conviction
that happiness of earth was never for him. For, he reasoned, if she
cared, why did she not write? At least a post card? Other fellows were
getting letters now and then. Day after day he waited when the mail was
distributed, but nothing ever came. His mother seemed to have forgotten,
too. Surely, all these weeks, some word would have come through. It was
not in reason that his mail should be delayed beyond others. Could it be
that there was false play somehow? Was Wainwright at the bottom of this?
Or had something happened to his mother, and had Ruth forgotten?

XVII

The weeks rolled by. The drilling went on. At last word came that the
company was to move up farther toward the front. They prepared for a long
hike almost eagerly, not knowing yet what was before them. Anything was
better than this intolerable waiting.

Solemnly under a leaden sky they gathered; sullenly went through their
inspection; stolidly, dully, they marched away through the rain and mud
and desolation. The nights were cold and their clothes seemed thin and
inadequate. They had not been paid since they came over, so there was no
chance to buy any little comfort, even if it had been for sale. A longing
for sweets and home puddings and pies haunted their waking hours as they
trudged wearily hour after hour, kilometer after kilometer, coming ever
nearer, nearer.

For two days they hiked, and then entrained for a long uncomfortable
night, and all the time Cameron's soul was crying out within him for the
living God. In these days he read much in the little Testament whenever
there was a rest by the wayside, and he could draw apart from the others.
Ever his soul grew hungrier as he neared the front, and knew his time now
was short. There were days when he had the feeling that he must stop
tramping and do something about this great matter that hung over him, and
then Wainwright would pass by and cast a sharp direction at him with a
sneer in the curl of his moustache, and all