"There’s so much in life to live for," he cried animatedly; "besides, I’m a little dubious of the _after_ world. For a little longer I should like to learn what tangible pleasures this world offers, rather than tempt the unsubstantiated promises of a future state." "But surely you believe in an after life?" I enquired, in some surprise. "It’s difficult to believe what one cannot prove," he returned evasively. "But," I ventured argumentatively, "I can imagine that if the total _matter_ in the universe is indestructible and cannot be added to or taken from, the _soul_ too is indestructible—it may be changed, but cannot be destroyed." "Ah!" he exclaimed quickly, "you are assuming the reality of the abstract. Suppose I do not agree with your hypothesis, and deny the existence of the soul! You cannot prove me wrong. Sometimes I fear," he continued more softly, "the soul, or what we conceive to be the soul, is merely the reflection of poor Humanity beating its anxious wings against the horror of extinction." "Or the shadow of a poor physician scuttling away from the terrors of your philosophy," I laughed. "You iconoclasts would pull our castles-in-the-air about our ears and leave us standing in the ruins." "I’ll build another castle for you," he returned with a queer, sad smile, as though he sympathised with my dilemma. "But not to-night," I urged, as I arose to go; "you must wait until you are stronger; you have been talking too much already for one so ill, and I must say good night." It was several days later, and the youthful philosopher was making good progress on the road to recovery, when another young officer, very similar in appearance to our patient, drove up to the door of the hospital in a motor car. He was attended by two senior officers of distinguished appearance and very military bearing, and who showed considerable deference towards their young companion. Apparently they had come from the front and, as the colonel showed them about the various wards, took the keenest interest in the patients. At last they came to the young Welshman’s room. As they entered he turned to look at them, and, dropping his arms, suddenly lay at "attention" in bed. "Llewellyn, by Jove!" exclaimed the youngest of the trio, as he stepped forward and shook our patient warmly by the hand. "I had no idea you were here. How are you?" "Much better, thank you, your Royal Highness," said Llewellyn, with his ready smile, "and greatly honoured by your visit, sir." "I hope it is nothing serious," said the Prince of Wales kindly—for it was he—"you are looking quite bright!" "It isn’t _very_ serious, I believe, sir—a touch of pleurisy, that’s all. But the doctors insist on sending me home on account of it. That is my chief grievance." The young Prince smiled understandingly. It was not so long since he too had unwillingly been detained at home by illness. His blue eyes lit up with a quick sympathy as he remarked: