It was a reserve trench, and between them and the enemy the front line men were doing their best to retake a trench that had been lost, and behind them were several companies in support, so that the new men were as yet in no great danger. They felt terribly warlike and anxious to get at them. Huge shells came hurtling through the darkness and exploded all too close, with terrific noises and ghastly blasts of lightning. “Bully!” jerked Noel, with his teeth set tight. “Bit of the real thing at last, old Greg! Wonder when we do anything?” “It’s dam damp to the feet,” said Gregor. “I’d jolly well like a run to get warm.” There was no chance of a run just then, but presently they were all ordered out into the open to dig a new trench, and the Germans sent up star-shells and found them out and gave it them hot. Bullets pinged past them and over them like clouds of venomous insects swept along by a gale. Shrapnel burst with vicious claps over their heads. Life seemed impossible and yet to their surprise they lived, and, whatever their private feelings, the new men stuck valiantly to their work and dug for dear life. Noel and Gregor were alongside one another delving like navvies, while sweat and shivers chased one another up and down their backs which felt horribly naked to damage. “Keep as low as you can, boys,” was their lieutenant’s order, as he paced the line behind, preaching better than he practised. “Navvies,” jerked Noel, through his teeth to Gregor, so strung up with it all that he must speak or burst. “Just jolly old navvies and grave-diggers and road-scrapers! That’s what we are, my son.” And then--a gasp alongside him, and a groan, and Gregor was down. “Greg, old man! What’s it?” and he was down on his knees beside him. But Gregor did not speak. Noel rose and hauled him up into his arms and began to stagger back with his burden towards the rear. A machine-gun somewhere on the flank opened on them. A hail of bullets swept into them. They both went down with a crash. “Stretchers here!” shouted the lieutenant, and then fell himself in a crumpled heap. * * * * * Let Ray’s letter tell the rest. Lois had rushed to meet the postman, as they used to do at The Red House, but never so eagerly as now. He handed her the letters with a grin. He wished all the houses he went to had a similar practice. It made him feel himself a universal benefactor. It was sleeting and the letters were sprinkled with drops--like tears. Lois picked out her own special, tossed the rest--none of which were of the slightest consequence compared with this one--onto the table in the breakfast-room and sped upstairs. She always read Ray’s letters first in sanctuary. She sliced it open very neatly, for even envelopes from the front were precious. And then as she glanced over it, with eyes trained and quickened to the vitalities, her face blanched and her lips tightened, and then the tears streamed down without restraint.