be a
good little boy, Ronald, and do what you conceive to be your duty."

"You needn't pull my leg about it," I said, though somewhat
half-heartedly.

"I'm not pulling your leg, as you put it," Dennie answered, in a more
serious tone. "If ever I saw honesty and truth and love and loyalty
looking out of a girl's eyes, that girl is Myra McLeod."

"Thank you for that, Den," I answered simply. There was little
sentiment between us. Thank heaven, there was something more.

"And so you see, you lucky dog, you'll go out to the front, and come
back loaded with honours and blushes, and marry the girl of your
dreams, and live happy ever after." And Dennis sighed.

"Why the sigh?" I asked. "Oh, come now," I added, suddenly
remembering. "Fair exchange, you know. You haven't told me what was
worrying you."

"My dear old fellow, don't be ridiculous, there's nothing worrying
me."

I pressed him to no purpose. He refused to admit that he had a care in
the world, and so we fell to talking of matters connected with the
routine of army life, how long we should be before we got to the
front, the sport we four should have in our rest time behind the
trenches, our determination to stick together at all costs, etc.
Suddenly Dennis sat bolt upright.

"Gad!" he cried savagely, "if you beggars weren't going, I could stick
it. But you three leaving me behind, it's----"

"Leaving you behind?" I echoed in astonishment. "But why, old man?
Aren't you coming too?"

"I hope so," said Dennis bitterly; "I hope so with all my heart, and I
shall have a jolly good shot at it. But I know what it will be, worse
luck."

"But why, Dennis?" I asked again. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," he replied, "but you've got your own troubles,
and there's no point in worrying about me, in any case."

I begged him to tell me; I pleaded our old friendship, and the fact
that I had taken him into my confidence in the various vicissitudes of
my own love affair. It struck me at the time that it was I who should
have been indebted to him for his patient sympathy and help; and here
he was, poor old fellow, with a real, live trouble of his own,
refusing to bother me with it.

"So you've just got to own up, old man," I finished.

"Oh, it's really nothing," said Dennis miserably. "I'm a crock, that's
all. A useless hulk of unnecessary lumber."

"How, my dear chap?" I asked incredulously. Here was Dennis Burnham,
who had put up a record for the mil