It is just as well we cannot look into the future. We walk blindfolded, clinging to the hand of Hope, and trust to her for kindly guidance. None of us at that moment guessed how soon we were to "hear" from those brave men. Later, when we were about to start for home, they all came out to the car to say _au revoir_. "It’s a good expression—’_au revoir,_’" Captain Stewart cried, as we were parting; "much better than ’Good-bye.’" "Take care of yourselves," we cried, "but don’t forget if you need us, we are waiting!" "We’ll remember," Stewart returned, "for I have a premonition I’ll not be _killed_ in this war." He waved his hand as we left, and when we looked back the little group, whom we were never to see together again, waved their hands in a last farewell. After about an hour’s run we saw in the distance, set like a jewel of the Tyrolese Alps, the pretty town of Cassel, near which our own Canadian boys were shortly to be quartered. It was about twenty miles in a direct line from the trenches, and soon after our visit the long-range German guns dropped their tremendous shells on its outskirts. When we reached the hospital a cablegram was waiting for the colonel. He tore it open hastily, fearing bad news from home. As he read its contents his mouth expanded in a broad grin, and he passed it silently to us. We read, and Reggy, looking over Jack’s shoulder, had the grace to blush as he too saw his mother’s message: "Greatly worried about my son. No word from him for weeks. He was troubled with insomnia at home. Does he sleep better now? Cable my expense." And the colonel sat down and forthwith wrote this soothing reply: "Reggy splendid. Awake only at meal hours. Don’t worry!" Late one night, about a week after our visit to the firing line, we were at the railway yard assisting in the unloading of a train of wounded. About three hundred and fifty had arrived, and we were transporting them rapidly to the hospital. The Medical Officer commanding the train approached me and said: "I have one car filled with wounded officers, and nearly all are stretcher cases. Will you come and see them?" We walked down the line of cars and, mounting the steps, entered the officers’ coach. We passed between the cots, and chatted with each officer in turn; they seemed quite cheery and bright. But one, who had pulled the blankets high about his neck, and whose face was partly covered with a sleeping-cap, looked very ill indeed. Unlike the others, he didn’t smile as we approached, but looked up without interest. His face was white and he took no notice of his surroundings. I asked him how he felt. He answered slowly and in a weak voice: "I’m all in, I guess—don’t trouble about me." Something in the voice and the jerky manner of speech seemed familiar. I looked at him more keenly. "Stewart!" I exclaimed with involuntary dismay. "Good Lord, it’s Charley Stewart!"