“It was before the Revolution,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t listen to me. The officers told me to go back to my regiment where I belonged. Now look at me.” Peter said something intended to be cheering; but there was a note in the voice of the American boy of the bubbling spirits that I had not heard there before. Two days later I met Ivan’s nurse coming from the field with her arms full of white daisies. We took them, wet with raindrops, and made a wreath and a long garland, and when we had finished we went to the crude little chapel on the edge of the wood. Leaning against the wall was a wooden cross, sawed that morning from a freshly cut pine. Inside, the light from a tiny altar lamp fell across a white pine coffin and upon the face of Ivan. We arranged the garland upon the coffin, and tied a bow of white gauze on the wreath. Then we stood back and looked silently a minute at the peasant boy from the distant country who had not lived to know either the joys or the limitations of freedom. Two other nurses slipped through the door and stood beside us. Tears came into the eyes of one and another, and they gave me a strip of white gauze because I had forgotten my handkerchief. It was a common language that we spoke--the only one we had in common. Ivan was Ivan, to us: a peasant boy who died in the years of his strength and youth, alone and far from home. Ivan was all the boys of the world to each of us, and a special boy or two in some particular corner of the world. I doubt if I could have danced that night, however tempting the music or importune the partner. Yet one must dance! The sun and the moon rise and the current of life flows on, heedless of tortured flesh, unmindful who lies dying. For two days I stayed away from the trenches. The rain oozed through the cracks in the rough pine boards in my room and spread in puddles over the floor. It showed no signs of ceasing. One morning, regardless of Peter’s protest, we set out to cover the three miles to the staff. A very much astonished young Russian met us at the door. “How did you get here?” he asked. I explained that we had come with much ease and some exhilaration on our own feet, and were none the worse for the walk. “But surely you don’t want to go to the trenches on a day like this! You will be up to your knees in mud. You can’t imagine what it is like,” he said. “I have a very strong desire to find out at first hand,” I answered. He consulted two brother officers, who in turn consulted the telephone. Finally they decided: “It is possible, but foolish.” Still smiling, but frowning indulgently upon me, they put me in the General’s big gray motor-car, and we started for the forest. Twice the heavy car stuck in the mud, and Lieutenant Gustaroff told me to tell my government to send some American Fords parcels post. Just as we reached headquarters the sun came slashing through the heavy clouds, and for three hours the downpour ceased.