Everything was very peaceful in the little hamlet when we arrived, however. It was a clear, starlit night, a little snow in the fields, and the dark silhouettes of the houses and church loomed up against the clear sky. The little church was in darkness--no midnight mass was being sung this year--and we slipped into our various billets in silence, very tired and not a little homesick. Christmas Day the men were marched into Bailleul, where a big dinner was given them by the officers of the battalion. In the evening another dinner was held for the officers themselves. There were the usual toasts and speeches, and before the party broke up Captain George T. Richardson asked for a few minutes' silent prayer for those who would not be present at our next dinner. It was a wonderful tribute to his sincerity that this was granted, for the evening was well advanced, and soldiers, as a rule, dislike having their religion tampered with by anyone but chaplains and other authorised personages. Poor George! he was the first of us to go but a few weeks later! We relieved the Toronto Battalion on the 29th, giving them a chance to celebrate the New Year in a similar fashion. Then the second week in February we attempted a raid similar to those made on our right and left by other battalions. The most obvious point was selected for the attack, and, by an unfortunate chance, a night when the moon was nearly full. As a result we were unable to get the wire cut, and the proposed raid was cancelled, the enemy having men dug in amongst their wire watching it. For some reason or other Captain Richardson, who was in charge of the affair, again went over the parapet, possibly to see that all were safely in, and was discovered a little later fatally wounded in amongst our own wire. He passed away a few hours later in the little dressing station at the Support Farm. So died a man who never gave a command he would not himself have executed willingly, and whose character and ideals were such that all who knew him envied him. And on his grave his brother officers placed a wreath with these simple words: "He played the Game." EPILOGUE Our later experiences are too recent for publication to-day; here, then, this brief story of the Canadians must make an end. THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.