"Dear old Kelly," I said, as I pressed his cold hand, "what have I to forgive? You're the best friend I have in all France." A lump in my throat prevented me from saying more. His hand returned the pressure, but there was no strength in it. Then to cheer me up, he said:
"Ye know, cap'n, Oi always did respict the cross, in the abshtract, of course, since Oi knelt at the knees of me poor ould mother, rest her soul; but Oi niver had any great desire to look up at one of thim little wooden crosses through six fate of earth," and the paling face lit up with its whimsical smile. "What's worryin' me though, is who'll look after yersilf. Ye're such a crank about how yer bacon's cooked, an' the sand in the tay, an'——" but just at that moment the padre came in from a neighboring battalion headquarters.
He had made me promise that if ever anything should happen to the wayward Kelly who should have been, but wasn't, a regular attendant at his church parades, I should send at once for him. I had done so as soon as I saw that poor Kelly was hard hit. I laid Kelly's hand gently down and slipped away. I was called hurriedly back a few minutes later by the padre.
"He wants you, doctor," he said briefly.
Kelly's eyes met mine. His were getting 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