‘“We caught sight of him comin’ thro’ the gaz,” ses he. “He was rollin’ and shtumblin’ like as he was in drink, but he was bringin’ somethin’ along on his shoulders. We couldn’t see what it was at first. It seemed weighty—he was doubled up under it like a camel. We’d got near him, about fifty yards off, when he giv another big shtumble and over he trip’t and fell over all in a big wee bonch. When we got till him he was shtretched out flat and a machane-gun was lying beside him. Ochone, it’s done for him I’m thinkin’, but sure, hadn’t he the divil’s own pluck to bring it that far?” ses he.’ Murphy lay very quiet after he had finished his tale, but he was now distinctly relieved. He submitted to having his bed made comfortable and his pillows shaken, and he let the Sister give him a little soup before settling off. She passed him half an hour afterwards and was thankful to see that the ferrety eyes were closed. By the difficult but regular breathing that came from that tired little body she knew that sleep, in merciful pity, had wiped out the memory of the machine-gun tragedy—for a few hours at any rate. DOSIA BAGOT. _BALLIOL MEMORIES._ BY THE HON. A. E. GATHORNE-HARDY. On March 28, 1916, in a blizzard of snow and a tempest of wind, which might bear comparison with the storm during which Oliver Cromwell passed away, celebrated by Tennyson’s ‘Talking Oak’— ‘When that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer’s soul Went by me, like a stork’ —the gentle and loving spirit of James Leigh Strachan-Davidson passed away. During his early manhood his health had been so weak that he had been regularly compelled to winter abroad, and few would have anticipated that he would have exceeded by three years the Psalmist’s allotted span of threescore and ten; but his dauntless courage, serene patience, and strong sense of duty carried him through a long career of usefulness.