he only thing that saved his life, for
if he had lain long with the wound he had got, there would have been no
chance for him. Wainwright, when he heard it, lay thoughtful for a long
time, a puzzled, half-sullen look on his face. He saw that everybody
considered Cameron a hero. There was no getting away from that the rest
of his life. One could not in decency be an enemy of a man who had saved
one's life. Cameron had won out in a final round. It would not be good
policy not to recognize it. It would be entirely too unpopular. He must
make friends with him. It would be better to patronize him than to be
patronized by him. Perhaps also, down in the depths of his fat selfish
heart there was a little bit of gratitude mixed with it all. For he _did_
love life, and he _was_ a mortal coward.

So he sent for Cameron one day, and Cameron came. He did not want to
come. He dreaded the interview worse than anything he had ever had to
face before. But he came. He came with the same spirit he had gone out
into the shell-fire after Wainwright. Because he felt that the Christ
asked it of him.

He stood stern and grave at the foot of the little hospital cot and
listened while Wainwright pompously thanked him, and told him graciously
that now that he had saved his life he was going to put aside all the old
quarrels and be his friend. Cameron smiled sadly. There was no bitterness
in his smile. Perhaps just the least fringe of amusement, but no
hardness. He even took the bandaged hand that was offered as a token that
peace had come between them who had so long been at war. All the time
were ringing in his heart the words: "With all your heart! With all your
heart!" He had the Christ, what else mattered?

Somehow Wainwright felt that he had not quite made the impression on this
strong man that he had hoped, and in an impulse to be more than gracious
he reached his good hand under his pillow and brought forth an envelope.

When Corporal Cameron saw the writing on that envelop he went white under
the tan of the battlefield, but he stood still and showed no other sign:

"When I get back home I'm going to be married," said the complacent
voice, "and my wife and I will want you to come and take dinner with us
some day. I guess you know who the girl is. She lives in Bryne Haven up
on the hill. Her name is Ruth Macdonald. I've just had a letter from her.
I'll have to write her how you saved my life. She'll want to thank you,
too."

How could