eager to bring their tribute of
pride and love to their brothers from their own country, far across the
sea.

"Malcolm! Hello, Malcolm!" cried a voice from a window of the train, as
the noise had somewhat subsided. "Hey, Malcolm, here you are!" cried a
wounded man, raising himself from his cot to the window.

Malcolm Innes turned, scanned the train, then rushed across the tracks
to the window and clung fast to it.

It was his brother, Ewen.

"Is it yourself, Ewen, and are you hurted bad?" cried the boy, all
unconscious of his breaking voice and falling tears. They clung together
for some little time in silence.

"Are you much hurted, Ewen? Tell me the God's truth," again said
Malcolm.

"Not much," said Ewen. "True as death, I'm tellin' you. My arm is broke,
that's all. We had a bad time of it, but, man, we gave them hell, you
bet. Oh, it was great!"

Then again the silence fell between them. There seemed to be nothing to
say.

"Here, stand back there! You must get back, you know, men!"

An N. C. O. of the R. A. M. C. tried to push Malcolm back from the
window.

"Here, you go to hell," cried Malcolm fiercely. "It's my brother I've
got."

The N. C. O., widely experienced in these tragic scenes, hesitated a
moment. An officer, coming up behind him, with a single glance took in
the situation.

"My boy," he said kindly, placing his hand on Malcolm's arm, "we want
to get these poor chaps as soon as possible where they will be
comfortable."

Malcolm sprang back at once, saluting.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Certainly, sir." And backing across the tracks,
stood looking across at the window from which his brother, wearied with
his effort, had disappeared.

Meantime the R. A. M. C. were busy with their work. With marvellous
rapidity and speed the train was unloaded of its pathetic freight,
the carrying cases into ambulances and the walking cases into cars and
wagons.

"Good-bye, Mac," called a voice as a car was driving off. It was Ewen
again. The wounded man spoke to the driver, who immediately pulled up
and swung over to the platform where Malcolm was standing.

"Oh, are you sure, Ewen, you are goin' to be all right? Man, you look
awful white."

"All right, Mac. You bet I will. It's only my arm," said Ewen, his
brave, bright words in pathetic contrast to his white face.

At this point Barry came rushing along.

"Why, Ewen! My poor fellow!" he cried, throwing his arm about the
wounded man's shoulder. "W