FROM BEYOND THE PYRAMIDS.

It was the evening after the battle at Farlow's Farm, and most of us—what's that? You never heard of any such engagement? Now, isn't that odd! Why, it was fought only last year, and for one whole day the papers were full of it. Well, though I had no idea of putting a preface to the story I started to tell, I suppose I must stop long enough to explain why there was a fight, and how it happened that so many of us—all of us, in fact—got back alive from it.

Once a year, you must know, there comes down from the State House, and through "proper channels," a mandate directing each volunteer regiment in the Commonwealth to arm and equip itself, ration and supply itself, and bundle itself out into the country for what officially is known as the Fall Drill. We are rather apt to refer to an affair of this sort as "going out with the regiment for the Autumn Manœuvres," because, you see, this sounds more dignified, and lacks the baldness of the official phraseology.

Now, an order for a Fall Drill means war; because it entails a long day of marching, a prodigal expenditure of blank cartridges, and, at headquarters, bother and worry beyond reckoning.

Yes, when one of these orders comes down to us we awake to an activity which calls for the largest size of A in the spelling of it. The quartermaster rises to a height of importance hard to estimate, while his sergeant—upon whom devolves the bulk of the work—sinks into a settled gloom of corresponding depth. The surgeons find themselves pestered with requests to lay in a better brand of liniment than the stuff they took out with them the year before, which, it unanimously is asserted, was too blistering in its effect. The adjutant grimly sits at his desk and wrestles with the "General Order" until he reaches a state half-way between utter misery and hopeless atheism. Why? Because he knows to a dead certainty that a copy of it will find its way into every Sunday paper in town, and therefore tries with might and main—to say nothing of the aid of the old order-files for ten years back—to make of it a lucid and grammatical fragment of English prose,—an attempt in which he most signally fails. And the colonel: well, he has the task of tasks, for it becomes his duty and privilege to evolve the plan of campaign; and the campaign, mind you, must be one that can be brought to a successful issue in a single day. Think of it! Do you suppose Sherman, or even Grant himself, could have met without concern such a demand upon strategic resources?

Days in advance of active operations, the field officers fill up their cigar-cases and run out into the country to look over the ground; constructing, upon their return, amazing maps, wherein—on generously large sheets of brown wrapping-paper—a tangle of blue lines and red ones serves to make plain the positions for the attack and the defence. Remarkable productions, those maps!—with long straight marks to indicate the roads, and zigzag lines to denote fences, and aggregations of pretzel-like symbols to show where the woods lie; and many a mystic sign besides to stand for as many more features in the landscape. Oh, we couldn't do without the maps, for a campaign that has to be settled between one sunrise and the next sunset must be managed very understandingly; and yet all this doesn't seem to keep the enlisted man from damning up hill and down both the maps and their makers when he finds himself one of a skirmish-line stationed in what ought to be a dry ditch, but isn't.

Well, last fall we got our annual order, went through with the usual week's worry at headquarters, and then railroaded the regiment out to Farlow's Farm for its day of field work. The fight was a stubborn one, and the amount of powder burned was far in excess of anything before known, for we had raised a regimental fund and had purchased with it some odd thousands of cartridges in addition to the quantity issued by the State.

The tide of battle swept back and forth until well into the afternoon, but finally the smoke-cloud lifted—because there were no more cartridges to be fired away—and in the lull a flag of truce was sent by the lieutenant-colonel, who humbly begged permission to bury his dead, and also announced his readiness to accept any decent sort of terms, since the umpires had declared his four companies to have been annihilated. Now, the lieutenant-colonel and his men, you understand, represented the enemy, and since we had been devoting the day to his destruction we sent up a mighty cheer when his submission was made known, voted the whole affair an admirable illustration of grand strategy, and prepared to leave the field to solitude and the sorrowful contemplation of farmer Farlow, its owner.

We formed line, then broke by fours to the right, and started off along the tree-shaded country road. Up at the head of the long column the drums rolled and rattled, while the bugles and fifes joined merrily together in the crazy, rollicking "Wild Irishman" quickstep—an air which never fails to send the Third into its famous, swinging gait. By turning in my saddle, as I rode in my place with the staff, I could see the regiment behind me as it came solidly tramping along—company after company of blue-clad men; rank on rank of snowy helmets; file upon file of sloping rifle-barrels; and midway of all, the colors, rustling their silken folds in time with the cadenced tread of the men who bore them. Far in the rear glowed a ruddy October sunset, making a fit background for the whole living, moving picture. It was a stirring sight and a beautiful one, and I glanced back again and again to see it, for the picturesque side of the service has a peculiar charm for me.

"Jove! but that's pretty!" said Van Sickles, who rode next me on the staff, reining his horse over a bit closer to mine, and nodding back towards the following column. "People sometimes ask me what earthly attraction I can find in volunteer soldiering. Well, a sight like that certainly has strong attractions for me," and he gave another long look towards the rear.

"Yes, this is one of the things outsiders miss," said I, bringing to bear upon the curb a light pressure, as I noticed that my horse gradually was outstepping the others, "and taking it all together, Van, the outsiders miss a great deal."

"That's so, Jack," assented Van Sickles, "but it's hard to make them see it. Time and again I've tried to explain why I went into the service, and why I stay in it; but I've given up that sort of thing now, because my friends only laugh and say, 'Well, you have got the fever, Van, but you can't give it to us.'" Here his horse stumbled slightly, but he easily lifted him, and then asked, "Say, old man, who's this Captain Penryhn?" and he waved his hand towards an officer in foreign uniform who was riding next our surgeon.

"Why, you met him," said I, "just before you were sent over to join 'the enemy.'"

"That's true enough; but I barely caught his name, and beyond the fact that he's in British uniform, and that Penryhn is his name and 'captain' his title, I'm still uninformed."

"Well, I can't help you out to any great extent," I rejoined, just as the rattle of the drums gave place to a crash of brazen melody from the band, "for all I know is that he's one of Stearns' acquisitions, is over here on leave, holds his commission in 'Her Majesty's Sixty-fifth,' and seems to be a decent, soldierly sort of fellow. You must remember that I've been more or less on the jump to-day, and haven't had time to cultivate acquaintances."

"We'll get a chance for cultivation later, no doubt," observed Van Sickles as we came in sight of the long train of cars, side-tracked and waiting to take us aboard and carry us back to the city. "He probably will dine with us to-night, and then we can"—

"Battalion—halt!" rang out the colonel's voice, and we reined up, as the seven hundred rifles behind us were brought down, with a rattle and crash, to the carry. "Order—arms! In place—rest!" followed; and we dismounted, and gave over our horses to the men waiting to lead them to their car at the head of the train.

An hours ride brought us back to the city, a short march through the lamp-lighted streets found us at the great armory, towering up in the dusky twilight, and then, one by one, the companies were dismissed, and seven hundred veterans were set free to resume the pursuits of peace—which I trust they at once did. We of headquarters dined together at the hotel which lies just around the corner, and afterwards, by twos and threes, sauntered up to The Battery, to smoke our after-dinner cigars and fight over again the day's battle.

When Van and I entered the cosey old room the fun had been started. "That's all right about your flank attack," the lieutenant-colonel was saying, in answer to the senior major's assertion that a brilliant move by his detachment had won the day for the attacking side; "oh, yes—that's all right; but if it had been the 'real thing,' I'd have cut you up into sausage-meat with the sharpshooters I'd tucked into that clump of pines."

"Well, why didn't you—as it was?" inquired the major, calmly cutting the end from his cigar.

"Because the boys had run short of ammunition," replied the lieutenant-colonel.

"Ah! they had, had they?" remarked the major sarcastically; "and if it had been the real old stuff I'd have been wiped out, would I? Humph! A bush full of sharpshooters without ammunition doesn't seem to strike me as being much of an obstacle. It's no use, Billy—there's where I caught you napping; empty boxes are empty boxes, whether they've been emptied of blank or ball."

"I was outnumbered, anyway," said the lieutenant-colonel, on the defensive for the second time that day. "How in thunder could I take four companies, and play 'em off against eight?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," pleasantly replied the major. "You thought you could, though, when we planned this thing out. Miscalculated just a hair, eh?"

"Hello, here's Stearns," put in Van, with a view to diverting the conversation into safer courses before the traditional tranquillity of The Battery should become ruffled. "How are you, Tom? Good evening, Captain Penryhn."

Stearns and his companion came up to the fireplace, in which a cheerful blaze had been kindled to take the chill from the air of the cool October evening, and for a moment the discussion was dropped; but it wasn't long before some chance word renewed the argument, and so, on Van's suggestion, we made a change of base to one of the small tables in the corner of the room, and left the strategists to settle their differences without our aid.

Now, it happened that Bones had been called away immediately after dinner, and so Van appropriated the absent surgeon's pet story, and entertained our visitor by telling how the doctor and "Acme" had brought the Cavalry Cup to our headquarters. It happened also that the recital of this yarn of ours reminded the Englishman of an experience of his own—and that was what I had started to tell you when I had to branch off into so many explanations.

"Rather brutal bit of luck, I should call it," observed the English captain, referring to Bones' racing exploit. "Must have been very melancholy for the troopers. Well, luck's a factor that can't be disregarded. I had a rare slice of luck myself, once on a time, and in the way of riding, too. Fancy I'll tell you of it. Do you mind?"

No, we didn't mind; and so Captain Penryhn proceeded to tax our credulity in this wise:

"I ran upon this particular piece of good fortune in—let me think—in '84," said he, bringing out his words slowly and with an accent which fell oddly upon our ears, and yet certainly detracted nothing from the interest of the story. "It was in Egypt, where we'd had to interfere somewhat in the course of matters. Daresay you remember what led up to all the bother?" Van nodded assent, and so I could do no less, though I'm morally certain that our combined knowledge of the Egyptian question could have been put into four lines of type without overcrowding. "Then I'll jump in medias res at once," Penryhn went on, "merely stopping to explain how I happened to be in Egypt at that time.

"I then was in the Sixty-fifth—the 'York and Lancaster' regiment—the same corps in which I now hold my captaincy. I was on leave, however, and had obtained permission to attach myself to the staff of Baker Pacha, who was fitting out his expedition for the relief of Tokar. I'd gone into this venture simply for the fun of the thing, but before I got quit of it I was forced to the conclusion that I possibly had been led into it under a mistaken set of impressions; for the fun was much less in quantity and of a far poorer quality than I had anticipated."

Penryhn picked up the mug which Sam had set upon the table, took a long pull at its amber contents, and then remarked, "Do you know, this American beer of yours is very good? In fact, I find myself coming to fancy it strongly, though I must admit that at first I didn't. It's much the same with Americans themselves: we Englishmen really don't care much about them until we learn to know them well, but when we do know them we become very fond of them. I found that to be so in the case of Carroll—Major Carroll, of your Eighteenth Regular Cavalry, who was with me on the campaign of which I am telling."

"Of our Eighteenth Cavalry?" said I, inquiringly. "Why, how came he in Egypt?"

"He was looking for sport, as I was," Captain Penryhn replied. "He was military attaché at Berlin, and had got leave for a few months. We both were volunteer aides-de-camp to Baker."

Here, noticing that the Englishman had got well towards the last inch of his cigar, I silently proffered my freshly filled case. He half drew out a weed, but pushed it back to its place, saying "I'm of a mind to try one of your pipes, if I may?"

"You certainly shall," said I. "Hi! Sam, bring the cobs." Penryhn took a pipe, filled and lighted it, and then remarked, "Oh, I say! I rather wondered why so many of you were smoking these things, but now I don't. Sweet, isn't it, eh?"

"Yes, we call a cobful of plug a comforting sort of smoke," said Van, "and it takes the entire crop of a fifty-acre cornfield to keep The Battery supplied with smoking utensils."

"Not really?" said our astonished guest.

"Possibly not quite," I put in; and then, in order to check Van in any further flights of imagination, I asked, "Didn't you have some difficulty, captain, in getting your expedition into shape? As I recall it, at this late day, Baker Pacha rather came to grief in his attempt at relieving Tokar."

"Difficulty?" said Penryhn. "Yes, we had an abundance of it. Baker had drawn together a mob of something over five thousand men. Did I say men? Sheep would be better—and black sheep, too; for the rabble we had with us, under the nickname of 'soldiers,' was made up for the most part of cowardly Egyptian fellahen, who had been driven into the ranks either through fear of the bastinado or else by the actual application of it. Great Wolseley! Never such a mob had masqueraded as an army since war was invented."

"How were you officered?" asked Stearns, tossing a match to Van, whose pipe had managed to go out.

"Mainly by Egyptians," replied the Englishman, "though there were enough Europeans to pound the mass into at least a semblance of order and discipline. But it's utterly impossible to put brains into a solid Egyptian skull, nor can you put any heart into one of those miserable, half-human fellahen: and that was unfortunate, you know, because it takes a tidy bit of heart to go out into the desert against the wild tribesmen; while as for brains—well, enough brains for aiming and firing a rifle are almost indispensable. 'Pon my soul, we actually lost scores of men by the random firing of our own troops. What d'ye think of that?"

"I think you ought to have had Van Sickles, here, to do a little missionary work among your marksmen," said I, laughing. "He's our I.R.P., you know, and since he came into commission he has been eminently successful in keeping our boys from killing each other."

"Beg pardon," said Penryhn, doubtfully, "your I.R.P.?"

"Inspector of rifle practice," explained Van, adding, "Shouldn't think you could have afforded to waste your darkies in that fashion."

"My dear fellow," said our visitor, in a tone of the deepest disgust, "it isn't possible to waste an Egyptian soldier. The only waste I can think of is that of the powder and lead it takes to blow him to—to oblivion."

"That was good material to recruit from," remarked Stearns. "Didn't you feel a little shaky about going out with it?"

"I've not the slightest hesitation in admitting that I did," replied the English captain; "and just before we started on our final advance, I bet a dinner with Major Carroll that if we got into a fight, our black regiments wouldn't face the music for an hour. It wasn't a bad bet, for I won by a good, wide margin.

"Well, on the fourth of February, in '84, we marched out our 'army' from Trinkitat, waded across the shallow lagoon to the mainland, and struck out over the sands for Tokar—twenty miles away. You think that you have done rapid work to-day in fighting a sham battle inside half-a-dozen hours, but we made a record that, in one way, is incomparably better than yours; for we marched four miles, fought just fifteen minutes by my bracelet watch, and the campaign ended right there! Can you equal that, eh?"

"Blest if it wasn't hustling!" said Stearns. "You had pretty nearly a soft thing in that bet of yours, didn't you?"

"It wasn't half a bad speculation," replied Penryhn, as Sam replaced our empties by four newly filled pewters. "Bah! a good part of our fellows couldn't find spirit enough even to run, and stood stock-still, paralyzed with fright, until they were cut down in their tracks. The rest of 'em—and the braver ones they were—set off on a jog-trot for Trinkitat, going just fast enough to afford gentle exercise to the cheerful savages, who trotted along after them and carved them up at their leisure. Ah, perhaps things weren't in a devil of a box!"

"I judge that you wasted precious little time in trying to rally your men," observed Stearns.

"On that point your judgment is very fair indeed," returned the Englishman. "Rallies aren't manufactured out of that kind of rubbish. I much sooner should have thought of attempting to catch a hurricane in a scoop-net. Perhaps if I'd been on hand at the first break I might have had a try or two at it, but it so happened that I'd been sent with a handful of native cavalry to scatter a bunch of horsemen threatening our flank. When I left the column on this errand, Baker was preparing to 'form square,' but the Mahdi's men came dancing in before he had time for the manœuvre, and when we came galloping back from our dash the fight was over; and, as I've said, fifteen minutes had been time, and ample, for the winding up of that campaign.

"It was a very rum go, and I reflected that, under all the circumstances, I might as well devote my time and attention to getting myself, with unpunctured skin, back to Trinkitat. However, I thought I'd edge in a bit towards the flying rabble, on the chance of falling in with Carroll; and so I spurred into the outskirts of the mob of fright-crazed blacks. As luck would have it, I ran upon my man almost immediately, and to my dying day I never shall forget how he was busying himself.

"You may think it absurd, but when I rode up to your countryman I found him holding by the collar an Egyptian major, whom he was spanking—yes, actually spanking!—with the flat of his sword. Affairs were at the last ditch of desperation, and every moment's delay brought death by so much the closer; and yet, for the life of me, I couldn't help laughing at the sight. The poor major was bawling and sobbing with pain and fright, while Carroll was laying it on with jolly goodwill, accompanying each whack with a burst of transatlantic profanity which, under any ordinary circumstances, would have made me shiver.

"But I hadn't any time to waste in watching performances of this sort, and so I rode up closer, yelling, 'Carroll! Carroll, old man, are you mad? You've not an instant to spare! The black devils are close upon us! Where's your horse?' Carroll gave two more resounding whacks to his captive, shook him until his teeth rattled, and then set him free, with a parting kick to speed him on his way to safety. Then he looked up at me with, 'Hello, Pen! My horse? That mud-colored major—I hope they'll lift his woolly scalp!—he shot my horse! Pulled his revolver, shut both eyes, blazed away, and hit poor old Selim. I swear, Pen, he nearly made me lose my temper!'"

"Were your native officers all as efficient as this one?" I inquired, after we had laughed a little over this piece of marksmanship.

"Why, compared with the others, he was a hero," said Penryhn, in all earnestness, "for he actually fired a shot. Most of 'em turned and ran without even stopping to pull trigger.

"But though all this now may seem funny enough in the telling, the humor of the situation wasn't quite so apparent then, for the few seconds that this little occurrence had consumed had brought danger very close to us. The half-naked Arabs had begun to carve their way right into the heart of our stampeding crowd, and from my seat in the saddle I could see them getting altogether too neighborly to suit my ideas of comfort. 'Catch hold of my stirrup,' I said to Carroll, 'and come along out of this.' He sprang towards me, but before he reached my side a great wiry savage came tearing through the mob, and with one sweep of his long sword hamstrung my horse. Probably he meant to have taken a shy next at me, but he lost the chance, for Carroll plumped a bullet into his neck, and he went tumbling down all of a heap. All that, though, was cold comfort; for there we were, on foot, and with any odds you please against our getting out of the scrape alive.

"'The game's up, old fellow,' said I, clearing myself from my struggling horse. 'Come up here to me, and so long as our ammunition lasts we'll fight it out, back to back.' Our chances seemed so desperate, you see, that I didn't give even a thought to escape. 'The hell we will!' responded Carroll, whose language somehow seemed unnecessarily lurid, 'I guess not! Pick up your heels, Pen, and make a scramble for it. We can fight just as well running as we can standing still.'

"At the word he started off, and I followed him, for though death seemed inevitable I didn't have quite the courage to stay and face it alone. 'It's no sort of use,' I panted, as we ran along side by side; 'we can't foot it for four miles over this sand—in our boots, too—and get clear of those naked desert-devils.'

"'Well, who's going to?' was the answer I got. Carroll had looked over his shoulder, and catching sight of a camel which, urged on by a Soudanese, was lumbering down upon us, he halted and faced about. 'Hi! you black son-of-the-Nile,' he shouted, 'hold up! You won't?' he went on, bringing up his revolver, and roaring out his command in Arabic. 'Take that, then!' and he fired twice. The first shot was a clean miss, but at the second the poor chap rolled over and dropped headlong upon the sand, while Carroll jumped to catch the riderless camel. 'Hold him by the nose!' I yelled, 'that's the only way you can manage him!' 'I've got him,' he sang out in reply, as he caught the dangling cord. 'Whoa! you hump-backed beast of misery! Hi! Steady, you four-legged, graceful nightmare! How in blazes, Pen, can we make him kneel?'"

"Well, how did you?" inquired Van, removing his pipe from between his teeth in order to ask the question.

"We simply didn't," said the Englishman, blowing forth a mighty volume of fragrant smoke, and following this up with a succession of short puffs, "because neither of us knew the trick. 'He looks higher than a house,' said I, as I stood helplessly beside the ungainly animal, 'but we've got to scale him somehow.' 'Here, hold his head,' said Carroll, 'and I'll make a bluff at mounting him,' and then, after we had exchanged places, he sprang up, caught at some part or other of the camel's trappings, and managed to haul himself up. 'Pass up the lines, Pen, and look lively,' he called out. 'Old Humpty's getting uneasy—and so am I. Give me your hand, and climb as if the Mahdi himself were after you!' I tossed him the rein, and started to follow him up, but the minute I released the camel's head the terrified beast lunged forward, knocking me over like a ninepin, and when I got to my feet again he was fifty yards away—and going like a race-horse.

"'Clean bowled!' I muttered, as I realized what had happened. 'He can't manage him, so my last chance is played,' and with a farewell glance at Carroll's receding figure I faced towards the desert—the direction from which I knew my death was on its way to me—drew my revolver, filled an empty chamber in it, cocked it, and waited for the end.

"All around me the rush of terror-stricken blacks continued, while in front, and not far away, I could catch the flash and gleam of steel when some Arab butcher hove his sword up into the air, to bring it whistling down upon one of our defenceless darkies. Frightened? Yes, I was in a blue funk, but it was the sort of fear that has a good share of ugliness in it, and I shut my teeth down and watched out for some one to kill.

"In a fix like that a little time goes a long way, and it seemed as though I had been standing there for hours—though probably it was a matter of but minutes—when a long, misshapen shadow darkened the sand beside me, and I heard a voice shouting, 'Quick, Pen, for your life! Your hand, old chap—your hand! I can't control this fellow much longer!' It was Carroll—the blessed, profane old angel!—who had worked some Yankee miracle with that camel, and had come back to pick me out of the wreck.

"Without a word, for seconds were precious then, I thrust my revolver into my belt—not the most careful thing I could have done, considering that it was full-cocked—and by a desperate bit of scrambling got up behind my rescuer. Off started the camel, stretched out at top-speed, swaying from side to side, and plunging and rising like a troop-ship in the Bay of Biscay, while we two fugitives clung to whatever we could lay hands upon. But it was comforting to note the rate at which he took himself over the sand, and I actually began to pluck up a trifle."

"Then you didn't complain of your accommodations," remarked Stearns, suggestively.

"I? No, I wouldn't have minded being tossed in a blanket if each toss had sent me away from Osman Digna's sweating savages.

"Well, we hung on like monkeys, and after a time became used to the jolting. Finally Carroll turned his head and said, 'You all right, Pen?'

"'Yes; and you?' said I.

"'Happy as a hoo-poo,' said he; 'but I've got all I can do to steer. You'll have to do the shooting, old man; and when your gun goes dry you'll find two shots left in mine. Help yourself to it, if you need it.'

"Now, I'm quite certain that I couldn't have hit a bungalow, under the circumstances, but I piped up cheerfully with, 'All right; you keep your eye out for Trinkitat, and I'll 'tend to matters at this end.'

"Luckily I didn't have to experiment at holding on with one hand and shooting with the other, for our long-legged mount held his gait nobly, and took us into Trinkitat, sound and safe, and at such a rate of going that we weren't much behind Baker and those of his staff who had escaped with him."

"Hm! that was a near call, Captain Penryhn," observed Van Sickles.

"I certainly thought so at the time," said the Englishman, shifting his position in his chair, "and I've seen no cause since to change my opinion. Carroll affected to make light of the whole affair, though, and declared that we could have got away on foot; and to prove it, he brought up the case of his Egyptian major, who actually managed to escape."

"No! Really?" asked Stearns. "I should hope that he and Carroll didn't meet afterwards."

"But they did," said Penryhn, with an expansive grin. "Oh, yes, they met—and it was a funny meeting, too. Carroll walked right up to his man, grabbed him by the hand, and congratulated him on his escape. And then he apologized for his conduct, and said that he felt compelled to give satisfaction for it; wherefore he would meet the aggrieved Egyptian whenever and wherever he might choose, and would fight him in whatever way he might be pleased to suggest. But this generous offer was too much for our native friend, and with a profusion of thanks truly Oriental he declined it, even going so far as to declare that the slapping he had undergone at the hands of the ever-noble and beneficent Carroll—'might his illustrious line long be permitted to continue!'—without doubt had saved his life, since it had been the means of spurring him on to a magnificent and gloriously maintained dash for safety. And so that matter ended happily and to the complete satisfaction of all concerned."

At this point the colonel came over to our corner and carried away Penryhn to show him the photographs of our field-work of the previous year. Stearns got up and went with them, leaving Van and me to smoke in comfort and exchange at our leisure our views of things in general. Now, that man Van Sickles is a sceptical sort of person, and he began to question the probability of the Englishman's story; but I maintained, as I still do, that it must have been true—for I'm myself something of a liar, and it's hard work for a brother-prevaricator to take me into camp. So I tell you the yarn in the full confidence that it is a true one; and I further will remark that last spring Penryhn sent over to Stearns an Arab shield, together with half a dozen villainous, iron-bound spears and a couple of long, straight, nasty-looking swords, all of which things now may be seen up in The Battery, where we've arranged them upon the wall, above the big book-case.

THE HYMN THAT HELPED