"How long do you think I have to live?" Stewart enquired, with some anxiety. "To live?" cried the surgeon, with a laugh. "About thirty or forty years, with luck." "What!" shouted Stewart, as he half sat up in bed with a quick jerk. "Do you mean to tell me I have the ghost of a chance?" "You’ll have a splendid chance if you keep quiet and don’t shout like that. You’d better lie down again," the surgeon commanded, not unkindly. "But, good Lord," Stewart protested animatedly, "here I’ve been trying to die for three days,—every one encouraged me to do it; and after passing through four surgeons’ hands, you’re the first to tell me I have a chance. It’s wonderful. Now I _will_ live—I’ve made up my mind." "Who said you would die?" "First the Chaplain at the Field Ambulance where they carried me in—more dead than alive. He came and shook his head over me. He was a good chap and meant well, I’m sure—he looked very dismal. I asked him if I would die, and he answered pityingly: ’A man shot through the stomach can’t live, my poor fellow. Shall I pray for you?’ I told him to go as far as he liked—he got on his knees and prayed like the deuce." "But you said you were wounded three days ago," the surgeon remarked. "What kept you so long from reaching here?" "I lay one whole day in front of the trench where I was wounded. The stretcher-bearers, against my wishes, came out to bring me in—just as the man at my head stooped down they shot him through the brain. I heard the bullet go ’chuck,’—he fell stone dead across me. I ordered the others back at once—that they must leave me until night. They refused to go at first, but I commanded them again to get back—at last when they saw I was determined, they went. Poor chaps! I know they felt worse at leaving me than as if they had been shot down." During this conversation the surgeon had dressed the wound, and now, admonishing his patient that he must not talk any more, left him for the night. In the morning Lady Danby came to his cot and marvelled at his bright face and cheery smile. "You’re feeling better this morning, I see," she remarked brightly. "Much the better for seeing you, madam," Stewart returned, with his customary chivalry; "and one does recover rapidly with such excellent nursing and care." "I’m afraid we’re going to lose you to-day," she replied, with a tinge of regret in her tone. "The Canadians insist on claiming you as their own, and I suppose we must let you go." "I must admit," he returned, "that I am sorry to leave such congenial company—come and see me sometimes, won’t you, please?" Lady Danby smiled. "When I first saw you last night, I thought I shouldn’t care to see you again—but you aren’t really quite as dreadful as I thought. Some day soon I’ll run in to see how you are getting on."