With an effort he gripped at his sword-hilt--and his fingers closed weakly over the folds of a hospital sheet. His newly opened eyes focused at last--not on the blue sky, with its hell of flame and smoke, but on the dingy gray canvas ceiling of a tent. This was all wrong. He raised himself on one elbow to peer about him. A sharp dizziness well-nigh made him swoon. At the same instant he was aware that the unbearable din of musketry and artillery had ceased and that soothing quiet reigned everywhere. Exhausted, he fell back, his head sinking into the depths of a soft pillow. Someone crossed the tent hastily and stood beside him. It was Battle Jimmie. For the briefest interval, as he lay blinking at his grandson, Dad believed they were back at Ideala, and that the boy had crept into his room, as had been his wont, for a good-night chat. Then he noted the lad’s ill-fitting uniform, and reason came to its own again. For a full minute they remained, without speech, looking into each other’s eyes, while slowly Dad’s brain cleared and he began to realize where he was. “Dad!” whispered Jimmie at last. “Dad, do you know me?” “Know you?” repeated Dad, in a weak but honestly surprised voice. “Why shouldn’t I know you? What a crazy question, son, to ask me!” Jimmie gripped one of Dad’s hands in both his own. “You’re all right!” he exulted. “You’re all right! The surgeon said if your mind was clear when you came to you’d be out of danger. Oh, gee, but it’s grand to have you alive again!” “Alive? What on earth do you mean?” “Why--why, nothing,” ended the boy. “What do you mean, dear lad?” insisted his grandfather. “Why shouldn’t I be alive? I’ve been alive ever since I can remember. It’s a kind of habit I got into ever so many years ago.” Jimmie giggled in sheer relief; a shaky giggle, but vibrant with joy. His grandfather’s voice was very weak and it faltered; but his grandfather’s spirit still burned bright and strong. And Jimmie rejoiced. “Go ahead and tell me how I got here, and what’s the matter with me,” murmured Dad haltingly. “I’m in a hospital tent, I suppose.” “Yes, sir. Been here a week. Senseless all the time. Concussion of the brain, the sawbones called it. Said if you came out of it sane you’d be all right in just a few days. Oh, but it’s been a rotten time, Dad! They let me stay, because I wouldn’t keep out. But you kept looking so--so _dead_!” The boy shuddered violently, then grinned again and squeezed Dad’s hand. “Tell me all about it, son,” begged Dad. “Everything. From--from--” “We’d just taken the hill,” answered Jimmie, seeking to marshal his facts in correct order. “They were shelling us from a couple of batteries to the left. Some shells burst over us. A piece of one hit you in the head and over you went. Say, but I wished ’most a hundred times that it had been me instead.” Dad lifted a fractiously unsteady hand to his head. It was swathed in cold, wet cloths. Jimmie went on: