her badly wounded man was brought in. 'I wonder what the victory is
costing us?'

'Never mind. It's costing t'other side more, sir,' said the casualty
grimly, and then shut lips and teeth tight on the agony that followed.

'I wish Macgillivray would come,' said Dewar when that was finished. 'He
could have done it so much better. It's just the sort of case he's at
his best on--and his best is something the medical journals write columns
about. I wish he'd come.'

And then, soon after, he did come--came on a stretcher with a bandage
about his head and over his eyes. 'Macgillivray!' cried the young
doctor, and stood a moment staring, with his jaw dropped.

'Yes,' said Macgillivray with lips tight drawn. 'It's me. That's Dewar,
isn't it? No need to undo the bandage, Dewar. It's my eyes--both
gone--a bullet through them both. And I'll never hold a scalpel again.
You can give me some morphia, Dewar--and send me on to the ambulance out
of the way. I'm no good here now--or anywhere else, now or ever. I
won't die, I know, but----'

They gave him the morphia, and before he slid off into unconsciousness he
spoke a last word to the chaplain: 'You were right, padre. You
remember . . . it's the women pay the hardest. . . . I'm thinking . . .
of . . . my wife.'

The chaplain's thoughts went back to the wife and mother of the Dohertys,
to the legless market-gardener and his ailing wife, to the boy lieutenant
who was the last of his line, and a score more he knew, and his eyes
followed as the stretcher bore out the hulk that had been a man who had
done much to relieve pain and might have done so much more.

The voice of another new-arriving casualty broke his thoughts. 'We're
winnin', doctor,' it was saying exultantly. 'All along the line we're
winnin' this time. The Jocks has got right away for'ard, an' the
Ghurkies is in wid their killin' knives on our left. An' the Irish is in
front av all. Glory be! 'Tis a big foight this time, an' it's winnin'
we are. Me good arm's gone I know, but I'd rather be here wid wan arm
than annywhere else wid two. An' what's an arm or a man more or less in
the world? We're winnin', I tell ye--we're winnin'!'

A SMOKER'S COMPANION

Except for the address, 'No. 1, Park-lane,' marked with a muddy
forefinger on the hanging waterproof sheet which served as a door,
there was nothing pretentious about the erection--it could not be
called a building--which was for the time