  It was not very long before the Maori boys, who had gone straight to old England, were drafted across to France, and they were soon in the thick of the Great War, fighting for all they were worth. Henare was well to the fore, and it was often remarked that he would soon distinguish himself or know the reason why. In fact, all the Maori boys were as keen and fearless as any of their Pakeha comrades, and made a deep impression on all the officers and men about them—and on the Germans in front of them too! At every turn Henare proved himself a wag, a wit, and a hero. He caused many a hearty laugh by his quaint comments on the Anglo-French gibberish, and the But everyone was cheerful and witty on that battlefront—though sometimes there was a grim lull in the fun; just before a battle, and in the thick of it. The wittiest men fought the most desperately, but saved their wit for a pick-me-up afterwards. During an awful fight over shell-holes and battered trenches, Henare was too eager and daring, and the result was a bad wound in the chest by a fragment of shell. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely when picked up by the Red Cross men, so, after first aid, he was conveyed with all speed to the base hospital. He soon became delirious and One night about twelve o'clock he opened his eyes and glared at an attendant standing near his bunk. Then, without a moment's warning, he sprang up and grabbed the attendant by the throat yelling at the top of his voice, "Py Hori, you bally ole nigger Wiremu, I catch you t'this time." With some trouble he was put back to bed again, and relapsed into unconsciousness. The next time he awoke, a pretty little French nurse, Marie Bouvard, was sitting by and watching him. She was just a slim little thing, more like a girl of seventeen than a woman of twenty-one. She was a born nurse, her very presence always did the sufferers good. Her voice was soft and healing, her touch was gentle and sympathetic, When Marie smiled she was at her best, for her solemn little face brightened up like a sudden burst of sunshine on the flowers. Henare watched her calmly for some time without moving, then he closed his eyes, and the man in the next bed heard him murmur,— "Py ... korry, Py ... korry, I tink I got to Heaven at lars ... t'that the angel face all right ... you bet." It is not surprising that under the care of a nurse like the little French Marie, the Maori hero gradually recovered. When he had reached a certain stage of recovery, he did not appear to be particularly anxious to progress any further. Most of Marie's patients felt like that. It meant parting Henare was no exception, though, be it said, Kiri was never far from his thoughts. But Marie simply fascinated him, and really the nurse herself became very much attached to the noble brown boy from England's far off Maoriland. He had been such a splendid patient, and such a grand "case" too. As time went on, during Henare's convalescence, he and Marie became at least very good friends, and always enjoyed one another's company, and whatever conversation it was possible for them to have, with Anglo-French and pidgin-Maori as the medium. In the middle of this pretty romance, Henare got a letter from Kiri, and it had a steadying effect upon his emotions. For patriotic reasons it was written in pidgin-Maori. Partly it ran,—
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