“She, dearly beloved, was the ideal of our boyish hearts.  Did you ever have a red-headed sweetheart in those olden golden days, Henry?” He shook a sad head in retrospection.  “Nor did one ever come to me.  But most boys want one sometime, so I took her off the Red Cross Posters and breathed the breath of life into her.  And isn’t she a peach; and doesn’t she kind of warm your heart and make up for the hardship of your youth?” He smiled assent and asked:  “But the young Doctor, Bill, surely he—­”

“He is the American spirit in France, Henry—­badly scared, very shy at heart, full of hope and dying to serve!”

“And it never happened—­any of it?” asked Henry.

“Yes, oh, yes, Henry.  There was the tall boy who played Saint Saens on the Espagne, and did the funny stunt at the auction; there was the night we sat on the food box near the front at Douaumont and heard the ambulance boy whistling the bit from “Thais,” far up the hill in the misty moonlight; there was the French soldier by the splintered tree in the Forest of Hess; there was the head nurse killed by the abri between Souilly and Verdun, who waited while her girls went in; there was the poor dying boy in the hospital for whom you bought the flowers and there was the handsome New York woman coming over to start her hospital.  There was the young doctor whom the German officer prisoner tried to kill.  And there was the picture of the red-headed Red Cross nurse, and there were our dreams.”

“And the ending—­will you have a happy ending?” demanded Henry.

“Aren’t the visions of the young men, and the dreams of the old always happy?  It is in passing through life from one to the other that our courage fails and our hearts sadden.  And these phantoms are of such stuff as dreams are made of and they may not falter or grow weary, or grow old.  Youth always has a happy ending—­even in death.  It is when youth ends in life that we may question its happiness.”

And so we left our fancies and walked to the big guns far forward and gazed into the sunset, where home lay, home, and the things that were real, and dear, and worth while.

THE END

APPENDIX A

   A Soldier’s Song

   [Musical notation]

   Love, though these hands that rest in thine so
   Love, though our dreams shall have no hope but

   dear, Back in-to dust, may crum-ble
   this, Love, though our faith must be our

   with-the year; Love, though these lips, that
   rar-est bliss; Love, though the years may

   [Musical notation]

   meet thy lips, so true, Soon may be
   bring their death and chill; Love, though our

   grass that stores the morn-ing dew
   blood must lose its pass-ion, still,

   O Love, Know well, that this fond heart of mine,
   Still, Love, Know well, that this heart is di-vine,