be rotten bad. Twoads they be! I never reckon no good 'ull come to men
what abuses wimmen and childern. But I'm afeard they be nation
strong--there be so many on 'em."

His tale had the simplicity of an epic. But the telling of it had been
too much for him. Beads of perspiration glistened on his brow. I felt it
was time for me to go. I sought first to draw his mind away from the
contemplation of these tragic things.

"Are you married?" I asked. The eyes brightened in the flushed face.
"Yes, that I be, and I 'ave a little boy, he be a sprack little chap."

"And what are you going to make of him?"

"I'm gwine to bring un up to be a soldjer," he said solemnly. "To fight
them Germans," he added. He saw the great War in an endless perspective
of time; for him it had no end. "You will soon be home in Wiltshire
again," I said encouragingly. He mused. "Reckon the Sweet Williams 'ull
be out in the garden now; they do smell oncommon sweet. And
mother-o'-thousands on the wall. Oh-h-h." A spasm of pain contracted his
face. The nurse was hovering near and I saw my time was up. "My dear
fellow," I said lamely, "I fear you are in great pain."

"Ah!" he said, "but it wur worth it."

* * * * *

The next day I called to have news of him. The bed was empty. He was
dead.