hundred guns. They began
the fight on a Saturday. The French on both their flanks gave way. One
army on each flank trying to hem them in and an army in front pounding
the life out of them. They fought all Saturday. They began the retreat
on Saturday night, fought again Sunday, marched Sunday night, they
fought Monday and marched Monday night, fought Tuesday, and marched
Tuesday night. The letter said they staggered down the roads like
drunken men. Wednesday, dead beat, they fought again--and against
ever fresh masses of men, remember. Wednesday night one corps came to
Landrecies. At half-past nine they were all asleep in billets. At ten
o'clock a perfectly fresh army of the enemy, field guns backing them up
behind, machine guns in front, bore down the streets into the village.
But those wonderful Coldstreams and Grenadiers and Highlanders just
filled the streets and every man for himself poured in rifle fire, and
every machine gun fired into the enemy masses, smashed the attack and
then they went at them with the bayonet and flung them back. Again and
again throughout the night this thing was repeated until the Germans
drew off, leaving five hundred dead before the village and in its
streets. It was in the last bayonet charge, when leading his men, that
Jack was killed."

"My God!" cried Larry. "What a great death!"

"And so Kathleen goes about with her head high and Sybil, too,--Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt, you know," continued Nora, "she is just like the others.
She never thinks of herself and her two little kids who are going to
be left behind but she is busy getting her husband ready and helping to
outfit his men, as all the women are, with socks and mits and all the
rest of it. Before Tom made up his mind to raise the battalion they were
both wretched, but now they are both cheery as crickets with a kind of
exalted cheeriness that makes one feel like hugging the dear things.
And, Larry, there won't be a man left in this whole country if the war
keeps on except old McTavish, who is furious because they won't take
him and who declares he is going on his own. Poor Mr. Rhye is feeling so
badly. He was rejected--heart trouble, though I think he is more likely
to injure himself here preaching as he does than at the war."

"And yourself, Nora? Carrying the whole load, I suppose,--ranch, and now
this mine. You are getting thin, I see."

"No fear," said Nora. "Joe is really doing awfully well on the ranch.
He practically takes ch