"I told you I was only here as a bird of passage. My time's up to-day. Good-by." "I'm awfully sorry. Good-by." They shook hands. Camilla went to Robin McKay and bent over him. "You're quite right, my dear boy. One ought to play the game to the bitter end. It's the thing most worth doing in life. God bless you!" The boy stared wonderingly at her as she disappeared. "I'm glad she's not going to be here any more," said the girl. Her husband's lips smiled. "Why?" "She's a most heartless, overbearing woman." "Oh, they all seem like that when they're upset," he laughed. "And I was really playing the most outrageous fool." She put her head close to him and whispered, "Don't you guess why I was so madly anxious to know that you could see?" She told him. And, from that moment, the possessor of the remembered voice faded from his memory. Camilla went to the matron. "I'm sorry, but I've bitten off more than I can chew. If I go on an hour longer, I'll break down. I'm due in France in a fortnight, and I must have my rest." "I can only thank you for your self-sacrificing help," said the matron. But, four days later, ten days before her leave had expired, Camilla appeared at the casualty clearing-station in France of which she was a Sister-in-charge. "What the devil are you here for?" asked the amazed commanding medical officer. "England's too full of ghosts. They scared me back to realities." The M.O. laughed to hide his inability to understand. "Well, if you like 'em, it's all the same to me. I'm delighted to have you. But give me the good old ghosts of blighty all the time!" The piercing of the line at Cambrai was a surprise no less to the Germans than to the British. The great tent of the casualty clearing-station was crammed with wounded. Doctors and nurses, with tense, burning eyes and bodies aching from strain, worked and worked, and thought nothing of that which might be passing outside. No one knew that the German wave had passed over. And the German wave itself, at that part of the line, was but a set of straggling and mystified groups. Camilla Warrington, head of the heroic host of women working in the dimly lit reek of blood and agony, had not slept for two nights and two days. The last convoy of wounded had poured in a couple of hours before. She stood by the surgeon, aiding him, the perfect machine. At last, in the terrible rota, they came to a man swathed round the middle in the rough bandages of the field dressing-station. He was unconscious. They unwound him, and revealed a sight of unimaginable horror. "He's no good, poor chap!" said the surgeon. "Can't you try?" she asked, and put repressing hands on the wounded man. "Not the slightest good," said the medical officer.