'Next morning he had brightened up considerably, and was very grateful that I had seen him the previous night. He gave me his Mother's address, and was most anxious that I should not say too much about his injuries. There seemed a possibility of his recovery; my judgment was in suspense about that, but I was not without hope. Next day I brought a pot of white primulas. He wanted them put where he could see them. So I arranged them high enough where his eyes could always rest upon their white beauty. "These mean that Spring is coming," I said to him, but I did not know then how near Eternal Spring was to him....
'He was most gracious and gentle in his ways, and so thankful for all that was done.'
EDWARD SKILTON, C.F.
'DECEMBER 29, 1915.
'I grieve very much to tell you that your son, Captain Lusk, took a turn for the worse last night. Captain Skilton, the Presbyterian Chaplain who has written to you informing you of the serious wounds your brave son received, would naturally have written to you now, but he is away at the present time. However, he asked me to write and keep you informed about your son's condition in his absence. The turn for the worse which came last night was somewhat unexpected, in spite of the fact that we knew the serious nature of your son's condition.
'We hoped, however, that, please God, his life might be spared. But I grieve to have to tell you that He has ordered otherwise. After your son's collapse the end came very rapidly last night and he passed away....
'If it is of the slightest comfort to you to know it, I should like you to feel that your son, after what he has undergone for his country's sake, spent his last days among friends, for his doctor and his nurse, Miss Bulman, quickly formed a great regard for him. Miss Bulman, I know, is writing to you herself, and I know how she has nursed your son with the greatest tenderness and care.'
BASIL ASTON
(Chaplain).
'DECEMBER 29, 1915.
'My heart is very sad as I sit down to write to you again. You will have heard ere this that Captain Lusk passed away last evening,—so quietly he went, it was hard to realize that he had really left us, and there had been such great hopes of his recovery. After his first night with us the improvement seemed to be so steady, and yesterday he spoke so brightly and seemed so much more himself in every way. Several times he spoke of you, and his keen desire that you should not be told that he was seriously injured. He asked not to be moved from here till he was stronger, and remarked how he enjoyed the sounds of the children's voices playing in the Convent garden. Our Hospital is the other half of the Convent. He also asked to see his tunic, which I had brought up, and in examining it we admired the little "piece of ribbon." Then in his gallant way he remarked "Yes, they were very good to give me that; we had a rough time, but they certainly have been good to me." I could only feel how very much more we would do if we could, to save the lives of men like that.'