"What about a cup of tea, now? Could you drink it?" "I'll--try, padre." The eyes twinkled a little. So the chaplain brought a mug of stewed tea, and Penny, laughing weakly, said: "You'll--have to pour it down--for me, padre. I can't move a muscle. These bloody bandages--sorry, padre--these bandages. O God--" "In pain?" gently inquired the chaplain. "No. Only a prisoner. I can't move. Pour the tea down." He gulped a little of the drink, and, dropping the heavily-fringed eyelids, so that he appeared to be asleep, muttered: "I suppose--I haven't a dog's chance. Find out if--I'm done for. Find out for me, please." "I asked the doctor before I came to you, old chap." On hearing this, Penny opened and shut his eyes, and remained so long just breathing that the chaplain wondered if he had lost consciousness. But the eyes unclosed again, and the lips asked: "Aren't you going to tell me, padre?" "Yes, I--you won't be a prisoner much longer, old chap." Not a word said Penny, but stared in wonder at his informant. It was clear that he wanted to live, and to mould the world to his will. There was a long silence, and then he murmured: "Well, there are lots of others--who've gone through it--and lots more who'll--have to go." And he shut his eyes in weary submission. The chaplain suggested a prayer with him, and Penny agreed in the half-jesting words: "But you'll--have to do it all for me, just as you poured the tea down. I'm no good at that sort of thing." And, when the prayer was over, he said with his old haughtiness: "You know, padre--I was thinking--while you prayed. I suppose I've led a selfish life--seeking my own ends--but, by Jove, I've had my good time--and am ready to pay for it--if I must." His eyes flashed defiantly. "If God puts me through it, _I_ shan't whine." As the end drew nearer, he turned more and more into a child. After all, he had never come of age. He spoke about his mother, sending her his love, and saying: "I'm afraid, padre, that I led her a life--but I'll bet she'd rather have had me and my plagues than not. Don't you think so?" He mentioned us with affection as "those two kids," and sent the message that he hoped we at least should come through all right. And then the lazy eyes closed in their last weariness, the impudent lips parted, and Penny was dead. The War had beaten him. It was too big a circumstance for him to tame. Sec.6 The night we heard of it, Doe threw himself into a chair and said: "I'm miserable to-night, Rupert." "So'm I," said I, looking out of the window over a moonlit sea. "Poor old Penny. I don't know why it makes one feel a cur, but it does, doesn't it?" "Surely," answered Doe.