dim. As I took his hand, his fingers feebly

gripped mine. I bent my head to catch the whispered words that issued from his lips:

"Good-by, docthor; Oi'm lavin' fer the great beyant. There's no use grumblin' an' Oi don't, fer Oi've had a full loife--me frinds often said too full, but sure they didn't know," with the faint smile. "But since that day whin ye showed me the picture ye carry over yer heart of yer three foine little byes--God bliss thim--Oi've wanted, whin the war was over, to go back wid ye and see thim. Will ye do me a favor, docthor, boy?"

His voice was growing feeble. The tears were flowing unheeded down my cheeks. I could not speak, so I squeezed his hand in assent. "Will ye talk to thim sometimes of Kelly? An' tell thim that wid all me faults Oi loved their daddy an' troied to sarve him well; an' that if Oi was sure me death would cause ye to be taken safely back to thim, Oi'd doie happy an' contint. God bless ye an' thim an'----" His voice died away, his dim eyes closed, and his soul passed into "that undiscovered bourne from which no traveler returns."

That night the padre and I buried him in a shellhole, erecting over his grave a little wooden cross on which we wrote:

PRIVATE JAMES KELLY

NUMBER A59000, --st CANADIAN BATTALION. A LOYAL, GENEROUS, FAITHFUL, SOLDIER AND FRIEND