When, some time later, she opened the packet she found the few pages of diary much what she had somehow expected. Just the short notes of a man pressed for every minute of his time, because every minute not given to definite duty was spent with, or for, his men. His love and care for them were in every line of those hasty scraps of writing, kept principally, it seemed to Ruth, so that nothing for each one might be forgotten. It was that personal touch that struck her most forcibly. Not one of his men had a private trouble but he knew it and took steps to help, not one was missing but he headed the search party if prior duties did not prevent, not one died without him if it were in any way possible for him to be there. That lean brown hand which she knew—had seen—what a sure thing it had been to hold. From the little hastily scribbled scraps it could be pieced together. That wonderful life which he, and many another, had led in the midst of hell. The light was fading when she took the letter out of its thin unstamped envelope, but Dick Carey’s writing was very clear, each word somewhat unusually far apart. “DEAR OLD ROGER (it ran),— “We have been badly knocked about, and are here to refit. Seven of our officers killed and four wounded; 348 out of 726 men killed and wounded—some horribly maimed—my poor fellows. This is butchery, not war. The Colonel was wounded early in the day and I was in command. Kelsey is gone, and Marriott, and little Kennedy, of those you knew. Writing to mothers and wives is hard work. You might go and see Mrs. Kelsey. She would like it. I have not a scratch and am well, but the damnable horror of this war is past belief. I have told Vi as little as possible, and nothing of the following. Poor von Schäde was brought into our lines, strangely enough, last evening, terribly mutilated. They had to amputate both legs and right arm at the clearing station. I managed to get down after things were over to see him. But he was still unconscious. We are in a ruined château on the right of —— Forest. There is a lake in which we can bathe—a godsend. “Just midnight; and while I write a nightingale is singing. It goes on though the roar of the guns is echoing through the forest like a great sigh, and even the crash of an occasional shell does not disturb it. I suppose born and bred to it. My God, what wouldn’t I give to wake up and hear the nightingales singing to the river at Thorpe and find this was only an evil dream! “_20th._ Von Schäde is gone. I was with him at the end, but it was terrible. I could not leave him and yet perhaps it would have been better. He seemed mad with hatred. Poor fellow, one can hardly wonder. It was not only himself, so mutilated, but he seemed convinced, certain, that they were beaten. He cursed England and the English. Me and mine and Thorpe. Even Vi. It was indescribably horrible. The evil of this war incarnate as it were——”