"You're flabby," announced Doctor Murdoch, the next morning, to an anxious Doggie, after some minutes of thumping and listening, "but that's merely a matter of unused muscles. Physical training will set it right in no time. Otherwise, my dear Trevor, you're in splendid health. There's not a flaw in your whole constitution." Doggie crept out of bed, put on a violet dressing-gown, and wandered to his breakfast like a man in a nightmare. But he could not eat. He swallowed a cup of coffee and took refuge in his own room. He was frightened--horribly frightened, caught in a net from which there was no escape. He had given his word to join the army if he should be passed by Murdoch. He had been more than passed! Now he would have to join; he would have to fight. He would have to live in a muddy trench, sleep in mud, eat in mud, plow through mud. Doggie was shaken to his soul, but he had given his word and he had no thought of going back on it. The fateful little letter bestowing a commission on Doggie arrived two weeks later; he was a second lieutenant in a battalion of the new army. A few days afterward he set off for the training-camp. He wrote to Peggy regularly. The work was very hard, he said, and the hours were long. Sometimes he confessed himself too tired to write more than a few lines. It was a very strange life--one he never dreamed could have existed. There was the riding-school. Why hadn't he learned to ride as a boy? Peggy was filled with admiration for his courage. She realized that he was suffering acutely in his new and rough environment, but he made no complaint. Then there came a time when Doggie's letters grew rarer and shorter. At last they ceased altogether. One evening an unstamped envelope addressed to Peggy was put in the letter-box. The envelope contained a copy of the _Gazette_, and a sentence was underlined and adorned with exclamation marks: "Royal Fusileers. Second Lieutenant J. M. Trevor resigned his commission." * * * * * It had been a terrible blow to Doggie. The colonel had dealt as gently as he could in the final interview with him. He put his hand in a fatherly way on Doggie's shoulder and bade him not take the thing too much to heart. He--Doggie--had done his best, but the simple fact was that he was not cut out for an officer. These were merciless times, and in matters of life and death there could be no weak links in the chain. In Doggie's case there was no personal discredit. He had always conducted himself like a gentleman, but he lacked the qualities necessary for the command of men. He must send in his resignation.