Two weeks later, Private Timothy Hagan, propped up in bed, lay in a hospital at the base. Presently an R.A.M.C. officer, obviously also more or less convalescent, entered the ward by means of a wheeled chair and looked about him. Hagan, catching the visitor’s eye, flushed deeply, laboriously drew a long breath, and turned away his head. The next minute, the officer, having given an order to the orderly pushing his chair, was at Hagan’s side. A word to the orderly, and the two wounded men were alone. ‘I have come, Hagan, to thank you for my life,’ said the officer. Hagan nervously rubbed his forehead with his hand, moved his lips as if framing unspoken words, and drew a deep inspiration. ‘’Twasn’t cowardice, sor,’ he breathed at last. ‘’Twas nought but a litle gurl at home phwat drew me.’ ‘Cowardice! You! You’re one of the pluckiest men I have ever seen. What do you mean?’ ‘I main, sor, whin I was schrimshankin’.’ ‘Sh--sh, my man! That little matter is all forgotten.’ ‘Yez did have me beat, sor,’ persisted Hagan, with a flash of humour in his eyes. ‘’Twas too cliver for me you was, sor. ’Twas the orderly hit me below the belt. He took me unbeknownst, sor.’ With a light laugh, the medical officer placed his hand upon the brawny fist of the man beside him. ‘You will get home to see your girl after all, Hagan--in your own way--and I am glad,’ he said. ‘Is it to be quits then, sor?’ ‘Yes--we will call it that,’ agreed the officer. ‘For the time being, we are quits. Later, I will repay you what is over--if I ever can.’ _DURING MUSIC: FANTASY AND FUGUE._ BY J. B. TREND. I. That low-breathed air and inwoven melody, Twined marvellously together, swift to run To the farthest bound of song, or knit in one To melt and glow in o’erwhelming harmony, You played. And I, startled to fantasy, Beheld a land of dishevelled wood and stream, A desperate rally of men, a flash, a scream-- And a friend riven beyond all agony. Yet did you play. Each delicate, rival thread Of sound was knotted at last and the music ended. Forest, colour, and mountain, earth held none But stunted woods with no companion tread, Greyness, and little hills, in a life unfriended; For all joy in things and love of them were gone. II. I heard those echoing tones your touch unpenned, Now hammer-notes that rivetted life with love, Now light as sou’west wind blown softly above; But all you played only to him could tend. So let it be, I said, until life’s end; In the tinkling wash at the bows, or water lapping All night upon the dinghy’s side, or tapping Of light wind in the halyards; there is my friend.