But life in the training camps was no holiday. It was hard, steady, strenuous business, carried on under the most rigid form of discipline. Yet the men were well clothed, well fed, had comfortable quarters, enjoyed regular periods of recreation, and were content with their lot, save that their eagerness to complete their training and get to the firing line inevitably manifested itself in expressions of impatience. To get up at 5:30 in the morning and drill for an hour before breakfast was no great task, nor two successive hours of fighting with tipped bayonets, nor throwing of real bombs and hand-grenades, nor was the back-breaking digging of trenches, nor the exhaustion from long marches, if only by such experiences they could fit themselves eventually to fight their enemy not only with courage but also with that skill and efficiency which counts for so much in modern warfare. It was ten days after Pen's enlistment that, being off duty, he crossed the parade ground one evening and went into the large reading and recreation room of the Young Men's Christian Association, established and maintained there for the benefit of the troops in training. He had no errand except that he wished to write a letter to his mother, and the conveniences offered made it a favorite place for letter writing. There were few people in the room, for it was still early, and the writing tables were comparatively unoccupied. But at one of them, with his back to the entrance, sat a young man in uniform busy with his correspondence. Pen glanced at him casually as he sat down to write; his quarter face only was visible. But the glance had left an impression on his mind that the face and figure were those of some one he had at some time known. He selected his writing paper and took up a pen, but the feeling within him that he must look again and see if he could possibly recognize his comrade in arms was too strong to be resisted. Apparently the feeling was mutual, for when Pen did turn his eyes in the direction of the other visitor, he found that the young man had ceased writing, and was sitting erect in his chair and looking squarely at him. It needed no second glance to convince him that his companion was none other than Aleck Sands. For a moment there was an awkward pause. It was apparent that the recognition was mutual, but it was apparent also that in the shock of surprise neither boy knew quite what to do. It was Aleck who made the first move. He rose, crossed the room to where Pen was sitting, and held out his hand. "Pen," he said, "are you willing to shake hands with me now? You know I was dog enough once to refuse a like offer from you." "I'm not only willing but glad to, if you want to let bygones be bygones." "I'll agree to that if you will agree to forgive me for what I've done against you and against the flag." "What you've done against the flag?" Pen was staring at him in surprise. When had the burden of that guilt been shifted?