"Sure, the thing I'm most wantin'," croaked "Bertha," "is to hear the wind
in the heather again, deep o' the night. There isn't a sweeter sound than
that, so soft an' croony-like."

"Yes, an' I'll be wantin' to hear the old cracked voice o' Biddy Donoghue
callin' cockles at the Antrim fair. Faith, she's worth thravelin' far to
be hearin'. An' think o' gettin' your tooth on a live cockle!" Johnnie
moistened his lips in anticipation as he broke forth in a falsetto:

"Cockles--good cockles--here's some for your dad,
An' some for your lassie--an' more for your lad."

Amid the appreciative chuckle of the listeners, the door of Ward 7-A
opened and the chief stood on the threshold. He smiled as a man may when
he has a hurting thing to do and grudges the doing of it. He saluted the
remnants of Company--of the Royal Irish:

"Orders, lads. You'll be leaving to-morrow for--Blighty."

There was nothing but silence, a silence of agony and apprehension, until
Patsy whispered, "Leavin' _together_, sir?"

"I--hope so."

"Thravelin'--the same?" It was Timothy Brennan this time.

"I don't know."

"Will we be afther makin' the same hospital yondther--do ye think?" It
took all Larry's fighting soul to keep his voice steady.

"I--It isn't likely."

"Thank ye, sir."

That was all. The chief left, and Sheila sat on in the stillness of Ward
7-A, wondering wherein lay the value of theories when in the face of the
first crucial need one sat stunned and helpless. The mask of good spirits
had dropped from the lads like a camouflaged screen; behind it showed the
naked, bleeding souls of twelve terror-stricken men. For Jamie's mask was
still upon him. If the orders had brought any added misery to him, no one
could have told.

As Sheila looked into their faces and saw all that was written there, she
gripped her hands behind her and tried to tell them what she had thought
out so clearly in the operating-room days and days before. But the message
she had thought was hers to give had somehow become meaningless. What
guarantee had she to make that their lives would go on being vital,
necessary to the big scheme of humanity? How could she promise that out
of their share in the war and the price they had paid would be wrought
something so fine, so strong and eternal, that the years ahead must needs
hold plenty for their hearts and souls? She could not get beyond the
realization that it was all only theory, the theory of one glowingly