The last pay book I examined had belonged to Private E. Spiller. His other belongings were scanty--a few coppers, a much-chewed pencil, and two letters. I looked at the latter for a clue as to whom I ought to write; one was in his own handwriting and unfinished, the other was from a girl with whom he had been "walking out," apparently his only friend in the world, as she alone was mentioned in the little will written at the end of his pay book. But her love was enough. Her letter was ill-spelt and badly written, but it expressed more love than is given to most men. "Take care of yourself, Erny dear, for my sake," she wrote. "I am so proud of you doing so well in them horrid trenches.... Dear Erny, you can't have no idear how pleased I am that you are so brave, but be quick and come back to me what loves you so...." So brave! I tried to laugh at the unconscious irony of it all, but my laugh would not come, for something in my throat held it back--perhaps I was a little overwrought by the recent shelling. I turned to the other letter, which I have thought fit to transcribe in full: "DEAREST LIZ, "I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present in the pink. Dear Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret--i am going to be rekermended for the V.C. becos i done so well in the trenches. i don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so ..." * * * * * And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee and wondered what to do with it. Should I tear it up and write to the girl to tell her the truth--that her lover was a liar and a coward? Should I tear his letter up and just announce his death? For some minutes I hesitated, and then I put his half-finished letter in an envelope and added a note to tell her. "He died like a soldier," I finished. "His letter will tell you better than any words of mine how utterly without fear he was." And I wish no other lie were heavier on my conscience than is the lie I told to her. XI THE CITY OF TRAGEDY What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins, that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do we care if great shells have torn gaping holes in the Grande Place, and if the station is a battered wreck where the rails are bent and twisted as bits of wire? We do not mourn for Ypres, for it is a thousand times grander in its downfall than it was ever in the days of its splendour.