'_Each one of us must fight on to the end._' Before his eyes there passed the spectacle of the Army, as he had actually seen it--a division, for instance, on the march near the Salient, rank after rank of young faces, the brown cheeks and smiling eyes, the swing of the lithe bodies.

And while he sat there in the quiet of the April evening, thousands of boys like Desmond were offering those same lithe bodies to the Kaiser's guns without murmur or revolt because England asked it.

Now he knew what it meant--_now he knew_! There was a knock at the door, and the sound of something heavy descending.

The Squire gave a dull 'Come in.' Forest entered, dragging a large bale behind him.

He looked nervously at his master.
'These things have just come from France, sir.' The Squire started.