A white bed, lights, nurses in white, who speak, who smile, who glide over the floors without making a noise. Can it be true? I no longer hear the noise, the hammering of cannon, and the infernal rolling of autos and caissons. It is strange. “Take No. 7 to the operating room,” says the head doctor. I am No. 7. The operating room.... It is all bright and white; through haggard eyes I look at the shining knives, the reflection of the glass, but a sharp odor seizes me, sickens me, stifles me. I am stifling.... My breath stops in my chest and no longer reaches my throat.... I am stifling.... No, I hear the bells.... I hear the bells.... How good they sound! * * * * * Is it a dream? An anxious face, shining eyes, lips trembling with a kiss, the beautiful loved hair with its familiar perfume. And the gentle caress on my forehead. Both arms close about it feverishly, as if never to let it go, on this dear being who brings with her kiss: love, life, the future. “Oh! you! you! at last! forever!” “Yes, Georges, yes, forever. I am here.” And the nurse standing at the foot of the little brass bed smiles with tears in her eyes. FOOTNOTES [1] Commandant’s Post. [2] Hospital for the Discharged. End of Project Gutenberg's Covered With Mud and Glory, by Georges Lafond