I chatted with him as long as I could, and then, telling him I would drop in later in the day, continued my rounds on the wards. As we entered one of the smaller rooms, I noticed a bright-eyed, red-cheeked Scotch lad, not more than seventeen years of age, seated upon his cot. He was chatting animatedly with several others, but sprang to attention as we approached. The nurse unwound the bandages and showed me his wound—a bayonet cut across the palm. We had already heard from his comrades that this slip of a boy, with the smiling eyes and ringing laugh, was one of the finest bayonet fighters in his battalion, and had to his credit a string of German scalps that would make a Pawnee Chief green with envy. His wound was the result of grasping his opponent’s bayonet during one of these fights. The nurse looked up at the boyish face—the big blue eyes and laughing mouth—he did seem such a child! "How _can_ you," she cried involuntarily; "how _can_ a little lad like you bear to kill men with a bayonet?" [Illustration: "HOW CAN YOU?" SHE CRIED INVOLUNTARILY, "HOW CAN A LITTLE LAD LIKE YOU BEAR TO KILL MEN WITH A BAYONET?"] His lips parted over his even white teeth in a broader smile than ever, but he flushed deeply as he exclaimed: "Oh, ma’m, when ye’re in a charge an’ ye see them steekin’ yer best chums—ye go fair mad—everything turns red afore ye, an’ ye could kill the whole bleedin’ lot!" "Bravo!" cried the little nurse enthusiastically, clapping her hands—she had been carried away, as I admit I too was, by his sincerity and vehemence. "May you live long and grow to be a great man, as you deserve!" After dressing his hand and the wounds of the others, we passed on into the next room, where a poor fellow, shot through the hip, lay suffering in heroic silence. It required three of us to do his dressing, because, on account of the peculiar position of the wound, he had to be turned upon his side each time, and with a fractured hip this was a process of great difficulty. This wonderful war has produced its many heroes, but when the great Recorder above opens His book at doomsday, He will find the name of William Hoare written large on the pages of valour. Throughout the painful dressing Nursing Sister Dolly stood at his head, and, placing her strong little arms about his great shoulders would tell him to lift himself by her; and Hoare would gratefully lock his hands behind her neck and help to raise himself. What he suffered, God only knows! He made no sign of complaint, but gritted his teeth together like a vise and never spoke until the operation was over. Beads of sweat stood upon his brow, and his face was pale, but no groan had escaped. "Have a little brandy, Hoare," Sister Dolly coaxed; "it’ll do you good—you look so white." Tears of sympathy stood in her eyes, but Hoare smiled bravely up at her and said simply: "Thank you—it would be welcome."