She turned, then rushed into his arms. "Oh, John!" Two ragged children lifted their caps and yelled "Vive les Anglais! Vive l'Angleterre!" but the lovers stood there alone in the world. "Why are you here?" he asked. She laughed, her fingers playing with the button of his tunic. "And you?" "Our headquarters are here--Hotel de la Poste--until to-night," he replied. Her face shadowed. "I have just been fetched. Tod--he is here--dying." "Tod!" "Yes--he came out with the Antwerp expedition--I am just going in to him--come!" She clasped his hand and they entered the gloomy porch together. The place had been a school--desks and chairs were piled up in the lobby. A Belgian soldier saluted and conducted them to the matron, a pale little Belgian woman. Lieutenant Vernley? Yes, he was here, but he could not be seen, M'sieur was ill, very ill, "a la morte," she added, raising her hands helplessly. John explained. "Ah!--his sister?--pardon! We expected her. Yes, come! You shall go in." They followed down a long ward, with dozens of beds, and groaning shapes beneath blankets, and entered a small room, very dull. In the corner was a bed and on it the figure of a boy. His shirt was open at the neck. His unshaven chin was growing a sandy beard, which contrasted with the green-grey pallor of his face; the hands which lay over the brown blanket, were red and soiled. Muriel slipped to her knees at his side. "Tod dear!" she whispered, taking his hand in hers. But he lay without response, his leaden head deep in the pillow. John stood in the doorway. "In the stomach, m'sieur--a shell splinter," explained the matron. "He has been delirious, 'Muriel,' that was all he cried, 'Muriel.' We found a letter from Mademoiselle in his pocket, and sent for her yesterday." "He doesn't know me," said Muriel, turning pathetically, but a pressure on her hand told her she was wrong. "Oh Tod, darling, I've come. I'm going to nurse you." A glimmer of a smile faded across the lad's face. John left her then, he would be back in an hour. When he returned, Muriel, very quiet, was sitting in the matron's room. He knew in a moment it was all over. Very gently he took her into his arms, and let her cry, with her head on his shoulder. They buried Tod the next morning. Phipps was there, and an English Army Chaplain, and two Belgian generals, carrying wreaths from the town authorities. Thus another Englishman was committed to the soil for whose defence he had gladly given his young life. After the funeral, they had to hurry away. Shells were falling into the town. Melle had been heavily bombarded and the Town Hall was a heap of ruins. Half the inhabitants of Ghent seemed to be streaming along the road to Bruges. The inevitable moment of parting came for John and Muriel. She was rejoining her unit, now at Bruges. When would they meet again? For a long moment she clung to him in the desperation of love.