We go on foot towards the wagon on which the bales of hay were being re-packed. The job is all finished now; the tarpaulin has been pulled tightly over the top and roped down. The Quartermaster is standing in rear of the wagon as though he were on guard. He’s an old soldier who has fought through many wars; he wears the African ribbon and several Indian decorations. He’s a big, comfortable sort of man, with an immense stomach and a body over six foot high. He has a wart on the right side of his nose, which he rubs thoughtfully when he talks to you. His voice is thick, as though his throat were grown up with fat. Of all our noncommissioned officers he’s the kindest. He plays the part of a father to the chaps, and has saved many a young soldier from going on the wrong slant. His name is Dan Turpin—“Big Dan.” The only beast of sufficient strength to carry him is an ex-Toronto fire-engine horse, called “Little Dan”—not that he is little, but to distinguish him from his master. As we approach, Big Dan is singing to himself in a sepulchral voice, Old soldiers never die They simply fade away. It would take more than a drive against the Huns to get Dan’s wind up. “Quarter!” “Yes sir.” We hear his heels click together and the jingle of his spurs. “Is the wagon re-packed all right?” “All correct, sir.” “Just loosen the flap of the tarpaulin at the back; I want to see for myself.” The rope securing the flap is untied and we slip our heads under the tarpaulin. Carefully, so that none of the light may spill on to the road and give us away to aeroplanes, Heming turns on his flash. At first the illumination is blinding; then one sees that the bales of hay have been so stacked as to leave a hollow. Inside the hollow someone stirs, sighs and turns over, disturbed by the light. The figure is slight and covered by an officer’s trench-coat. Heming shifts the flash, so that it creeps along the body and reveals the face. Suzette! Her khaki tunic is unhooked and unbuttoned at the neck. Bully Beef lies snuggled in her arms, with his small head hidden against her breast. Her soldier’s cap has slipped aside and her hair, which was like honey and sunshine, has been cut square against the neck. From beneath the trench-coat I see that she is wearing puttees. I understand—she will pass for a man now. But why does she want to accompany us into danger? Is she so desperately alone and fed-up with life? And Heming, why does he——? She opens her eyes and smiles sleepily, knowing that we are friends. From farther up the column we hear the order being shouted back, “Get mounted the drivers.” The flash goes out. “Good-night, Suzette.” The tarpaulin is lowered anil tied into place. From far ahead comes the groaning of guns and ammunition-wagons taking up the march.