Probably that also was true. It would hardly have made Jan happy to discover—as he might have done—that he had mistaken an entirely commonplace young woman for a divinity nor to realise—as he must have done—that he was too heavily weighted in life’s handicap to emerge from the ruck where he was so ill at ease. Judith Combe, while brushing her mistress’s hair that evening, said of him with unexpected sagacity that maybe Providence had ‘served him kind’ by taking him out of this world, seeing that he would always have been set upon what was beyond his reach. Judith herself was so set upon obtaining something for which she was more than a little afraid to ask that she decided to take the risk of making her desire known. Could Miss Mildred spare one of Jan’s letters? He had not written to her at all, and she would like very much, if she might, to have a page or two from his own hand. ‘Because we was in a manner friends, you see, Miss.’ Mildred looked inquiringly at her sedate handmaid and smiled. ‘I am not sure that it would be quite fair to the poor boy,’ she answered. ‘He says some things which many people would think rather comic, and perhaps I oughtn’t.... However, you wouldn’t understand. Oh, well, yes, Judith—take them all, if you care to have them. I think I can find the whole collection.’ So the whole collection became the property of Judith, who spent many an hour over it and stained some of its leaves with her tears. It is by no means certain that she did not understand Jan’s flights of fancy and diction. It may even have constituted one of the unnumbered ironies of human experience that Jan himself should have been more nearly understood by the illiterate Judith than by Mildred Haseldine or by anybody else. W. E. NORRIS. _THE NEW ‘UBIQUE’: A BATTLE._ BY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY. By the ears and the eyes and the brain, By the limbs and the hands and the wings, We are slaves to our masters the guns, But their slaves are the masters of kings! GILBERT FRANKAU. Somewhere about the middle of June, we knew definitely that we were ‘for it,’ as the soldier says; we knew that our division was one of those chosen for the great concentration which was to culminate in the ‘great push’—and we were proud of the distinction. A three days’ march brought us to a certain training area, where we camped for a week and worked some seventeen hours a day—counting, that is, from réveillé at 4 A.M. until the last bit of harness was hung up clean and ready for the morrow at 9 P.M.