"Wherever it is we are. I don't quite know where that is. Do you? I'm speaking," he continued, "in the old terms of place in the sense of locality, because I don't know what else to do; but locality, of course, is gone. We're in the universal, which makes it difficult for us, after being used to so many limitations, to understand ourselves." Lester was aware of fear, awe, and irritation all struggling in him together. "You may be in the universal, as you call it; but--but I've come through." "We've both come through. The marvel is that we've done it so easily. It's as I expected--only more so." "As you expected--in what way?" "Every way; all my life. When your barrage fire began I prayed--" "Do you fellows _pray_?" Lester asked, in astonishment. "Oh, some of us--what we used to call prayer--the sort of thing my poor wife and children are doing now--begging--pleading that this or that shall be done--instead of resting in strength, as you and I are." "I'm not--I'm not--resting in strength." "Oh yes, you are! You are, without knowing it. It's what human beings are always doing. They get every kind of good in their lives, and don't know the source from which it comes. You won't know to what your present actual comfort is due till--" But the woman rose from her knees, and so did the children. Wiping away their tears, they began the preparations for a frugal breakfast. As Lester felt the presence that had accompanied him moving from his side and enveloping all three in tenderness, he found himself alone with his thought again. There was no shock to him in the fact that, as Molly had expressed it, the mortal had put on immortality; he had faced the possibility for too long. Ever since the first entraining he had accepted it as an eventuality of war. On sailing for France he knew there were increased chances against his ever coming home. In the months that followed he grew accustomed to death and more or less obtuse to it. He smoked and chaffed is the morning with fellows who by noon had gone--who could tell where? They used the euphemism of "going west"--into the sunset, into the glory, into the great repose. It was the easiest thing to say, and many a time he had said it of himself. "By this time next year I may have gone west." Then it became: "By this time next month I may have gone west." Later it was: "By this time tomorrow--" "Within an hour--" "Within half an hour--" "Within ten minutes--" as the seconds slipped away. Well, he had gone west! The odd thing was that he had done it so easily, so painlessly. The tedious hours in the trenches faded more or less from recollection. The going over the top and all that followed after it became nothing but a blur. Even the months in camp, in Texas, behind the lines in France, dissolved like vapors when they mount into the air. What was present to him most forcibly was the thought of the dear ones he had left behind.