serious lines showed about the mouth and eyes. His cheeks were thinner
and there was a slight sinking at the temples, telling of great
privations, and of dangers endured. But the features were much stronger.
The six months had been in effect six years. The boy of Dresden had
become the man of the trenches.

He finished, rubbed his hand over his face to satisfy himself that the
last trace of young beard and mustache was gone, put away his shaving
materials in a little niche that he had dug with his own hands in the
wall of the trench, and turned to the Englishman.

"Am I all right, Carstairs?" he asked.

"You do very well. There's mud on your boots, but I suppose you can't
help it. The melting snow in our trench makes soggy footing in spite of
all we can do. But you're trim, Scott. That new gray uniform with the
blue threads running through it becomes you. All the Strangers are
thankful for the change. It's a great improvement over those long blue
coats and baggy red trousers."

"But we don't have any chance to show 'em," said Wharton, who sat upon a
small stool, reading a novel. "Did I ever think that war would come to
this? Buried while yet alive! A few feet of cold and muddy trench in
which to pass one's life! This is an English story I'm reading. The
lovely _Lady Ermentrude_ and the gallant _Sir Harold_ are walking in the
garden among the roses, and he's about to ask her the great question.
There are roses, roses, and the deep green grass and greener oaks
everywhere, with the soft English shadows coming and going over them.
The birds are singing in the boughs. I suppose they're nightingales, but
do nightingales sing in the daytime? And when I shut my book I see only