d'ye think of the orchestra Jerry is playing out
there on the front? Some noise, eh, what? Say, this little old hut is
some good place to tie up to, eh, pard! I've seen 'em before, that's how
I knew."

During the days that followed Cameron spent most of his leisure time in
the Salvation Army Hut.

He did not hover around the victrola as he would probably have done
several months before, nor yet often join his voice in the ragtime song
that was almost continuous at the piano, regardless of nearby shells, and
usually accompanied by another tune on the victrola. He did not hover
around the cooks and seek to make himself needful to them there, placing
himself at the seat of supplies and handy when he was hungry--as did
many. He sat at one of the far tables, often writing letters or reading
his little book, or more often looking off into space, seeing those last
days at camp, and the faces of his mother and Ruth.

There was more than one reason why he spent much of his time here. The
hut was not frequented much by officers, although they did come
sometimes, and were always welcomed, but never deferred to. Wainwright
would not be likely to be about and it was always a relief to feel free
from the presence of his enemy. But gradually a third reason came to play
a prominent part in bringing him here, and that was the atmosphere. He
somehow felt as if he were among real people who were living life
earnestly, as if the present were not all there was.

There came a day when they were to move on up to the actual front.
Cameron wrote letters, such as he had not dared to write before, for he
had found out that these women could get them to his people in case
anything should happen to him, and so he left a little letter for Ruth
and one for his mother, and asked the woman with the gray eyes to get
them back home somehow.

There was not much of moment in the letters. Even thus he dared not speak
his heart for the iron of Wainwright's poison had entered into his soul.
He had begun to think that perhaps, in spite of all her friendliness,
Ruth really belonged to another world, not his world. Yet just her
friendliness meant much to him in his great straight of loneliness. He
would take that much of her, at least, even if it could never be more. He
would leave a last word for her. If behind his written words there was
breaking heart and tender love, she would never dream it. If his soul was
really taking another farewell of her, what