green with red crosses here and there. Bandaged men stared dumbly at us from the rails.
Liverpool had altered sufficiently. From it the war stretched grimy fingers to draw us closer into its lethal atmosphere. A sentry paced the landing stage. No more than a handful of people waited there. As we drew closer we all noticed a tall, straight young fellow in a Highland uni- form. He walked up and down impatiently, swinging a little stick, glancing with anxious eyes at the crowd of us by the forward rail. The girl and her mother were near. They cried out.
They glanced at each other tearfully. They commenced with jerky motions to wave their handkerchiefs. The young officer, with a piece of shrapnel near his heart, suddenly swung his stick, paused, and stared up at the tear-stained faces.
"Doesn't he look fit?” the girl cried proudly. "But not really fit—never fit for war again."
More intimate affairs grasped us. Sheep-like we were herded into the dining-room to face the alien officers.
While we awaited our inquisitions the young Highlander entered, exuding a naïve pride in his uniform which had won a permit to pass the guards, which had hastened this moment of fervent greeting. He stood close to us with his wife. For a time they spoke softly, then all at
