"You are a splendid soldier, Hoare," I remarked, as Sister Dolly hurried away for the stimulant. "I’m not really a soldier, sir. I’ve only been a few months in the ranks," he answered. "I’m a ’bus driver in London." I thought to myself: "A ’bus driver in London—but a hero of heroes in France!" He raised his head as Sister Dolly held the glass gently to his lips. "You are very kind," he murmured gratefully. "I’m a deal of trouble to you." The little sister smiled sadly and shook her head, then without a word dashed from the room. "I’d have burst out crying—if I’d stayed another minute," she exclaimed impetuously, when I met her a moment later in the hall. "I’m a fool, I know—I’m too chicken-hearted to be a nurse." "You’re a real woman," I ejaculated in genuine admiration; "the world is the better because you were born!" We then visited the large ward. There were forty patients in it, most of them looking as jolly as if hospital life were one of the most amusing experiences in the world. Some were reading, some playing cribbage, some of those with minor wounds were helping about the ward, and all were smoking. But one, who had just arrived, looked dangerously ill. We approached his bed, his greenish pallor was alarming. I felt for his pulse—it had disappeared. We gave him a hypodermic at once to stimulate him, but we knew all too well he was far beyond human aid. He smiled slightly as I spoke to him. His mind was clear, with that preternatural clearness which heralds death. I sat down beside his bed—it was screened off from the others—and took his hand. "Have you any friends to whom you wish to send a message?" I asked him gently. "Why, doctor," he enquired, with a keenness of perception that was embarrassing, and looking up at me with a glance of slight surprise, "do you think I am going to die?" "You are very ill indeed," I replied hesitatingly, "and I think it would be well, if there is some one in whom you are specially interested, that you should write at once." He smiled faintly again as he looked me in the eye and answered: "There is only one person in the world who concerns me deeply—my mother;" he turned his head away an instant, "I have already written her. How long do you think I have to live?" Even when one can answer, this is always the most awkward question in the world. No one ever gets accustomed to pronouncing a death sentence. I shook my head sadly and replied: "I cannot tell you positively—but I fear you have only a few hours more." "Well, well," he said somewhat indifferently, and then his voice became more interested. He turned back and asked suddenly: "By the way, will you grant me a favour?" I assured him I would do anything in my power; but I was totally unprepared for his request. He spoke eagerly: "Then, may I have a bowl of rice pudding?"