"Well, we'll just wait here a few minutes until we can time these things," said Barry, sitting down by the roadside.

As they were waiting there, three soldiers passed them at quick march.

"Better wait, boys," called Barry; "they are dropping quite a few shells at the crossroads."

"We are runners, sir," said one of them. "I guess we'll just take a chance, thank you, sir."

"All right, boys, if you think best," replied Barry. "Good luck!"

"Thank you, sir," they said, and set off at a smart pace.

While Barry sat listening to the sound of their footsteps upon the pavement, there came that terrific whine, followed by an appalling crash, as a H. E. shell landed full upon the road. Barry sprang to his feet. Three other shells followed in quick succession, then there came the sound of hurrying feet and a man appeared, bleeding horribly and gasping.

"Oh, my God! My God! They are gone! They are gone!"

"Sit down," said Barry. "Now, where's your wound?"

"My arm, sir," said the man.

Barry cut off the blood-soaked sleeve, ripped open his first aid dressing, and bound the wound up tightly. Then he put a tourniquet upon the arm above the wound.

"The other boys killed, you say?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir, blown to pieces. Oh, my God!" he groaned, shuddering. "My chum's whole head was blown off, and the other has his belly all torn up."

"Now look here, old man," said Barry, "you lie down here where you are, and keep perfectly still," for the man was throwing himself about, more from shock than from pain. "We'll get you to the dressing station in a few minutes. Monroe, run and get the stretcher bearers, and I'll go and see how things are up yonder."

He threw his coat over the wounded man, and set off at a run toward the crossroads. He found matters as the man had said, the two bodies lying in a dark patch of bloodsoaked dust, one with head quite blown off, and the other with abdomen horribly torn.

He hurried back to the wounded man, who had recovered somewhat from his shock and was now lying on his side quietly moaning. Barry got from him the names and units of the men who had been killed.

"I will drop a note to your mother, too, my boy," he said, "and tell her about your wound."

"Oh, sir," said the boy quickly—he was only a boy after all—"don't tell her—at least, tell her I'm all right. I'll be all right, won't I?"

"Sure thing," said Barry, "don't you fear. I won't alarm her, and I'll tell her what good stuff you are, boy."

"All right, sir. Thank you, sir," said the boy quietly.

"And I'll tell her, too, that you are not worrying a bit, and that you know that you are in the keeping of your Heavenly Father. How is that?"

"Yes, sir," said the boy in a low voice. "I will be glad to have you tell her that. She taught me all that, sir. Poor mother, she'll worry though, I know," he added with a little catch in his throat.

"Now you brace up," said Barry firmly. "You have got off mighty well. You have got a nice little blighty there, and you are going to be all right. I'll give your mother the best report about you, so that she won't worry."

"Oh, thank you," said the boy, with fervent gratitude, "that will be fine. And you are right," he added, a note of resolution coming into his voice. "I got off mighty well, and it's only my left arm, thank goodness. I'll brace up, sir, never fear," he added between his teeth, choking back a groan.

Barry accompanied the stretcher-bearer back to the chateau and gave the man over into the care of the C. A. M. C.

"Can you put a squad on to digging a grave?" he inquired of the officer in charge. "If so, though I'm in an awful hurry, I'll stay to bury those poor chaps."

"Sure thing, we can," said the officer. "We'll do the very best we can to hurry it."

In about an hour and a half Barry was on his way again. He dodged the shelling at the crossroads, and following a track across the open fields, arrived at the Zillebeck Bund without adventure.

Here to his relief he found the battalion. He made his way at once to Headquarters, and walked in upon a meeting of officers.

"Well, I'm—" exclaimed Colonel Leighton, checking himself hard, "who have we here! What in hell are you doing here, Pilot? I thought you would be safely in old Blighty by this time," he added, shaking him warmly by the hand.

"Oh, you couldn't work that game on me, colonel," said Barry cheerily, going round the group of men, who gave him an eager welcome. "You thought you had shipped me off, just as the fun was starting, but I got on to you."

"Well, I'll be darned," said Major Bayne. "How did you find out?"

Barry told him, adding, "You will have to train your man to lie more cheerfully."

"That's what comes of a man's environment," said the major, disgustedly. "I was always too truthful, anyway."

"Well, sir," said Barry, turning to the colonel. "I'm awfully glad to find you here. I was afraid I'd lost you."

"Well, gentlemen," said the colonel, "you have all got your orders. Does any one want to ask a question? Well, then, it's pretty simple after all. Two companies advance as far as Maple Copse, and gradually work up until they feel the enemy, then put in a block and hold against attack, at all costs. The other two companies are to follow up in support at Zillebeck Village. Later on, when our reserves come up, and when our guns return—I hear they are pushing them up rapidly—we are promised a go at those devils. Meantime we have got to hold on, but I expect the battalion will be pulled out very shortly."

The flickering candles lit up the faces of the men crowding the dugout. They were elaborately careless and jolly, but their eyes belied their faces. Under the careless air there was a tense and stern look of expectation. They were all sportsmen, and had all experienced the anxious nervous thrill of the moments preceding a big contest. Once the ball was off, their nervousness would go, and they would be cool and wary, playing the game for all they had in them.

"Now, gentlemen," said the colonel, as they prepared to leave the dugout, "before I let you go, there is one thing I want to say. It's a tradition of the British army that any soldier or officer who has lost his unit marches toward the sound of the guns. I am proud to-night that we have an example of that old tradition here. We left our chaplain behind, and he didn't know where his battalion had gone, but he moved toward the sound of the guns. That is what I would expect from any of you, gentlemen, but it's none the less gratifying to find one's expectations realised."

Only his flaming face revealed Barry's emotion as the colonel was speaking.

"Now then, gentlemen, carry on, and the best of luck."

"Sir," said Barry, "what about a little prayer?"

"Fine," said the colonel heartily, while round the room there ran a murmur of approval.

Barry pulled out his little Bible and read, not one of the "fighting psalms" but the tenderly exquisite words of the Shepherd's song. His voice was clear, steady and ringing with cheery confidence. His prayer was in the spirit of the psalm, breathing high courage and calm trust, even in the presence of the ultimate issue.

In a single sentence he commended his comrades to the keeping of the Eternal God of Truth and Justice and Mercy, asking that they might be found steadfast in their hour of testing and worthy of their country and their cause.

Together they joined in the Lord's prayer; then lifting over them his hands, he closed the little service with that ancient and beautiful formula of blessing, which for two thousand years has sent men out from the Holy Place of Meeting to face with hearts resolved whatever life might hold for them.

One by one, as they passed out the officers shook hands with Barry, thanking him for the service, and expressing their delight that he was with them again.

"What are we going to do with you, Pilot?" inquired the colonel.

"I thought I'd stick around with the boys," said Barry.

"Well," said the colonel, gravely, "of course, there's no use of your going up to the attack. You would only be in the way. You would be an embarrassment to the officers. That reminds me, there was a call from Menin Mill for you this afternoon. They are having an awful rush there. Our own R. A. P. will be in Zillebeck Village, and our Headquarters will be there."

"I'll go there, sir, if you agree," said Barry, and after some discussion the matter was so arranged.

In a ruined cellar in the village of Zillebeck, a mile and a half further in, the R. A. P. was established and there carried on during the desperate fighting of the next three days. Through this post a continuous stream of wounded passed, the stretcher cases all night, the walking cases all day and all night. In spite of its scenes of horror and suffering the R. A. P. was a cheery spot. The new M. O. was strange to his front line business, but he was of the right stuff, cool, quick with his fingers, and undisturbed by the crashing of bursting shells. The stretcher bearers and even the wounded maintained an air of resolute cheeriness, that helped to make bearable what otherwise would have been a nightmare of unspeakable horror. Attached to the R. A. P. was an outer building wherein the wounded men were laid after treatment. Thither in a pause of his work, Barry would run to administer drinks, ease the strain of an awkward position, speak a word of cheer, say a prayer, or sing snatches of a hymn or psalm. There was little leisure for reflection, nor if there had been would he have indulged in reflection, knowing well that only thus could he maintain his self-control and "carry on."

With each wounded man there came news of the progress of the fighting. The boys were holding splendidly, indeed were gradually eating into the enemy front. They brought weird stories of his comrades, incidents pathetic, humorous, heroic, according to the temperament of the narrator. But from more than one source came tales of Knight's machine gun section to which McCuaig was attached. Knight himself had been killed soon after entering the line, and about his men conflicting tales were told: they were holding a strong point, they were blown up, they had shifted their position, they were wiped out, they were still "carrying on." McCuaig was the hero of every tale. He was having the time of his life. He had gone quite mad. He was for going "out and over" alone.

The first authentic account came with young Pickles, now a runner, who made his way hobbling to Headquarters with a message from A Company, and who reported that he had fallen in with McCuaig by the way, and by him had been commandeered to carry ammunition, under threat of instant death.

"Where did you see McCuaig first, Pickles?" Barry inquired, anxious to learn the truth about his friend.

"Way up Lover's Walk," said young Pickles, who was in high spirits, "under a pile of brush and trees. I though it was a wildcat, or something moving and snarling—the light was kind of dim—and when I went up there was McCuaig. He was alone. Two or three men were lying near him, dead, I guess, and he was swearing, and talking to himself something fierce. I was scart stiff when he called me to him. I went over, and he says to me, 'Say, youngster,' just like that, 'you know where this walk used to drop down into the trench? Well, there's a lot of machine gun ammunition over there, all fixed up and ready. You go and bring it up here.' I tried to get out of it, sayin' I was bringing a 'hurry up' message down, but he turns his machine gun on me, and says, 'Young man, it's only a couple of hundred yards down there, and fairly good cover. They can't see you. Go and bring that stuff here. If you don't I'll blow you to hell just where you stand.' You bet I promised. I got that ammunition so quick. Oh, of course, he's crazy, all right," said young Pickles, "but he is fighting like hell. I beg pardon, sir."

"Doctor, I'm going after him," said Barry. "He will stay there until he bleeds to death. He is my oldest friend."

"All right, padre, if you say so," said the M. O., "but it's a nasty job. I should not care for it."

Barry knew the area thoroughly. He got from young Pickles an exact description of the location of the spot where McCuaig had last been seen, and with the returning stretcher bearers set off for the wood, which was about a thousand yards further on.

The communication trench leading up to the wood, which had been constructed with such care and of which the Canadians were so proud, had been blown up from end to end by the systematic and thorough bombardment of the three days before. The little party, therefore, were forced to make their way overland by the light of the star shells.

They reached the wood in safety. Barry looked about him in utter bewilderment. Every familiar feature of the landscape was utterly blotted out. The beautiful ambrosial wood itself, of heavy trees and thick tinder-brush, was a mat of tangled trunks, above which stood splintered stubs. Not a tree, not a branch, hardly a green leaf was left. Under that mat of fallen trunks were A and C Companies, somewhere, holding, blocking, feeling up toward the Hun.

The shells were whining overhead, going out and coming in, but mostly coming in. None, however, were falling on the wood because here friend and foe were lying almost within bayonet length of each other. Only an occasional burst from a machine gun broke the silence that hung over this place of desolation and death.

"That's the company Headquarters," said the stretcher bearer, pointing to what looked like a bear den, under some fallen trees. Barry pushed aside the blanket and poking his head in, found Duff and a young lieutenant working at a table by the light of a guttering candle.

"For the love of God, Pilot," exclaimed Duff, springing up and gripping Barry's hand, "it's good to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"I came up for McCuaig," said Barry, after a warm greeting to both.

"Oh, say, that's good. We have got him as far as the next dugout here, the old bear. I've been trying to get him out for half a day. There's a soldier for you! He's been potting Boches with his blessed machine gun, scouting from one hole to another for the last two days, and he's got a nasty wound. I'm awfully glad you have come."

"How are things going, Duff?"

"We have got the ——s so that they can't move a foot, and we'll hold them, unless they bring up a lot of reserves."

"By Jove! Duff, you boys are wonderful."

"I say," said Duff, brushing aside the compliment, "did young Pickles get through? That young devil is the limit. You'd have thought he was hunting coyotes."

"Yes, he got through. Got a blighty though, I guess. It was he that told me about McCuaig."

"Well, Pilot, old man," said Duff, taking him by the arm, "get out! Get out! Don't waste time. There may be a break any minute. Get out of here."

Duff was evidently in a fever of anxiety. "You had no right to come up here anyway; though, by Jove, I'm glad to see you."

"What's the fuss, Duff?" said Barry. "Am I in any more danger than you? I say," he continued, with tense enthusiasm, "do you realise, Duff, that as long as Canada lasts they will talk of what you are doing up here these days?"

"For Heaven's sake, Pilot, get out," said Duff crossly. "You make me nervous. Besides, you have got to get that wounded man out, you know. Come along."

He hustled Barry out and over to the neighbouring dugout, where they found McCuaig with his beloved machine gun still at his side. The wounded man was very pale, but extremely cheerful, smoking a cigarette.

"I'm glad to see you, sir," he said quietly, reaching out his hand.

"Good old man," said Barry, gripping his hand hard, "but you are a blamed old fool, you know."

McCuaig made no reply, but there was a happy light on his face. Under Duff's compelling urging they got the wounded man on a stretcher and started on their long and painful carry.

"Now, boys," warned Duff, "you are all right up here, except for machine guns, but don't take any chances further out. That's where the danger is. When the shells come, don't rush things. Take your time. Now, good-bye, Pilot, it's worth a lot to have seen you anyway."

"Good-bye, old man," said Barry, smiling at him. "You're the stuff. Good luck, old man. God keep you."

Duff nodded, and waved him away. The return trip was made in comparative quiet.

"What do you think, doctor?" said Barry, after the M. O. had completed his examination.

"Oh, we'll pull him through all right," said the M. O. "When did you get this, McCuaig?" he continued, touching a small wound over the kidney.

"Dunno, rightly. Guess I got it when we was blown up, yesterday."

"Then why didn't you come in at once?" inquired the M. O. indignantly.

McCuaig looked at him in mild surprise.

"Why, they was all blown up, and there wasn't anybody to run the gun."

The M. O. examined the wound more closely and shook his head at Barry.

"We won't touch that now. We'll just bandage it up. Are you feeling pretty comfortable?"

"Fine," said McCuaig with cheerful satisfaction. "We held them up, I guess. They thought they was going to walk right over us. They was comin' with their packs on their backs. But the boys changed their minds for them, I guess."

A reminiscent smile lingered upon the long, eaglelike face.

Half an hour later Barry found a minute to run into the adjoining room where the wounded lay.

"Anything you want, McCuaig?" he asked.

"A drink, if you ain't too busy, but I hate to take your time."

"Oh, you go to thunder," said Barry. "Take my time! What am I for? Any pain, Mac?"

"No, not much. I'm a little sleepy."

Barry turned the flash-light on his face. He was startled to find it grey and drawn. He brought the M. O., who examined the wounded man's condition.

"No pain, eh, Mac?"

"No, sir," said McCuaig cheerfully.

"All right, boy, just lie still," said the M. O., beckoning Barry after him.

"He is going out," he said when they reached the dressing room, "and he's going fast. That wound in the back has been bleeding a long time."

"Oh, doctor, can't anything be done? You know he's got a remarkable constitution. Can't something be done?"

"There are times when a doctor wishes he had some other job," said the M. O., "and this is one of them."

"I say, doctor, will you get along without me for a while?" said Barry.

"Go on," said the M. O., nodding to him.

Barry took a candle and went in beside his friend. As he sat there gazing upon the greying face, the wounded man opened his eyes.

"That you, Barry?" he asked with a quiet smile.

Barry started. Only in the very first weeks of their acquaintance had McCuaig called him by his first name, and never during the past months had he used anything but his rank title. Now all rank distinctions were obliterated. They were as man to man.

"Yes, Mac, it's me. Do you know what I was thinking about? I was thinking of the first time I saw you coming down that rapid in your canoe."

"I remember well, Barry. I often think of it. It's a long time ago," said McCuaig in his soft, slow voice. "I've never been sorry but once that I come, and that time it was my own fault, but I didn't understand the game."

"You've made a great soldier, Mac. We are all proud of you," said Barry, putting his hand upon McCuaig's. McCuaig's long thin fingers tightened upon Barry's hand.

"I think I'm going out," he said, with his eyes on Barry's face. "What do you think?"

It was the time for truth telling.

"Oh, Mac, old man," said Barry, putting his head down close to him to hide from him the rush of tears that came to his eyes, "I'm afraid you are, and I hate to have you go."

"Why, Barry, you crying for me?" asked McCuaig in a kind of wonder. "Say, boy, I'm awful glad you feel that way. Somehow I don't feel quite so lonely now."

"Oh, Mac, you are my oldest, my best friend in the battalion, in all the world," said Barry.

"Oh, I just love to hear you say that, boy. Do you know I wanted to tell you how I felt about that time on the boat, you remember?" Barry nodded. "Barry, tell me, honest Injun, did I make good as a soldier?"

"The best ever," said Barry. "They all say so, officers and men. I heard the colonel say so the other day."

Again the smile came.

"Barry, it was you that done that for me. You showed me, and you done it so nice. I never forgot that, and I always wanted to tell you how I felt about it. Barry, you done a lot for me."

"Oh, Mac, don't talk like that," said Barry, trying to keep his voice steady. "I did so little and I wanted to do so much."

"Say, I like to hear you. I'd like to stay a little longer just to be with you, Barry. I've watched you just like you was my own boy, and I've been awful proud of you, but I didn't like to say so."

The uncovering of the great love of this simple, humble hearted man broke down Barry's self-control. He made no effort to check his falling tears.

"I'm getting—kind of weak, Barry," whispered McCuaig. "I guess I won't be long, mebbe."

His words recalled Barry's nerve.

"Mac, would you like me to say a prayer?" he asked. "Just as you feel about it, you know."

"Yes—I would—but I ain't—your religion—you know—though—I like—awful well—the way—you talk about—Him."

"I know you are R. C., Mac, but after all you know we have just the one Father in Heaven and the one Saviour."

"Yes,—I know, Barry. It's all the same."

Barry had a sudden inspiration.

"Wait, Mac, a minute," he said.

He hurried out to the dressing room, seeking a crucifix, but could find none there.

"I'll run across to Headquarters," he said.

"Say, there's a machine gun playing that street awful," said the M. O.'s sergeant, "to say nothing of whizzbangs."

"Oh, that's all right," said Barry. "I'll make a dash for it."

But at Headquarters he was no more successful. He went out into the garden in the rear of the R. A. P., and returned with two small twigs. The M. O. bound them together in the form of a cross. Barry took it and hastened to McCuaig's side.

The hurried breathing and sunken cheeks of the wounded man showed that the end was not far. As Barry knelt beside him, he opened his eyes. There was a look of distress upon his face, which Barry understood. God was near. And God was terrible. He wanted his priest.

"Barry," he whispered, "I've not—been a good man. I haven't been—mean to anybody,—but I used—to swear—and fight, and—"

"Mac, listen to me. We're all the same," said Barry, in a quiet, clear voice. "Suppose I'd injured you."

"You wouldn't—Barry."

"But suppose I did some real mean thing to you, and then came and said I was sorry, would you forgive me?"

"Would I—I'd never think—of anything—you did—to me, Barry."

"Mac, that's the way your Father in Heaven feels to you. We have all done wrong, but He says, 'I will blot out all your sins.' You needn't fear to trust Him, Mac."

"I guess—that's so, Barry—I guess that's—all right."

"Yes, it's all right. Now I'll say a prayer. Look, Mac!"

He held up the little wooden cross before his eyes. A smile of joy and surprise transfigured the dying face.

"I see it!—I see—it!" he whispered, and made a movement with his lips. Barry laid the cross upon them, and with that symbol of the Divine love and of the Divine sacrifice pressed to the dying lips, he prayed in words such as a child might use.

For some time after the prayer McCuaig lay with his eyes shut, then with a sudden accession of strength, he opened them and looking up into Barry's eyes, said:

"Barry, I'm all right now. . . . You helped me again."

The long thin hands, once of such iron strength, began to wander weakly over the blanket, until touching Barry's they closed upon it, and held it fast.

"I—won't—forget—you—ever—" he whispered. The nerveless fingers with difficulty lifted Barry's hand to the cold lips. "Good—bye—Bar—ry—" he said.

"Good-bye, dear old comrade. Good-bye, dear old friend," said Barry in a clear quiet voice, gazing through his falling tears straight into the dying eyes.

"Good—night—" The whisper faded into silence. A quiet smile lay on the white face. The eyes closed, there was a little tired sigh, and the brave tender spirit passed on to join that noble company of immortals who abide in the Presence of the Eternal God of Truth and Love, and "go no more out forever," because they are akin to Him.

In the sorely tortured graveyard, beside the little shell-wrecked Zillebeck church, in a hole made by an enemy shell, they laid McCuaig—a fitting resting place for one who had lived his days in the free wild spaces of the Canadian west, a fitting tomb for as gallant a soldier as Canada ever sent forth to war to make the world free.

That night the battalion was relieved. Worn, spent, but with spirit unbroken, they crawled out from under that matted mass of tangled trunks, sending out their wounded before them, and leaving their buried dead behind them, to hold with other Canadian dead the line which from St. Julien, by Hooge, Sanctuary Wood, and Maple Copse, and Mount Sorel, and Hill 60, and on to St. Eloi, guards the way to Ypres and to the sea. To Canada every foot of her great domain, from sea to sea, is dear, but while time shall last Canada will hold dear as her own that bloodsoaked sacred soil which her dead battalions hold for Honour, Faith and Freedom.



CHAPTER XVII

LONDON LEAVE AND PHYLLIS

The leave train pulled into the Boulogne station exactly twenty-six hours late. As Barry stepped off the train he was met by the R. T. O., an old Imperial officer with a brisk and important military manner.

"You are the O. C. train, sir?" he inquired.

"I am, sir," replied Barry, saluting.

"You have had a hard time, I understand," said the R. T. O., drawing him off to one side and speaking in a low tone.

"Yes sir, we HAVE had a hard time," replied Barry, "at least the men have. This is my report, sir."

The R. T. O. took the document, opened it, glanced hurriedly through it.

"Ah," he said, "ninety-seven casualties, thirteen fatal. Very bad. Six burned. This is truly terrible."

"There were only two soldiers burned, sir," replied Barry, "but it IS terrible, especially when you think that the men were going on leave and were supposed to have got quit of the danger zone."

"Very, very terrible," said the officer. "You ran off the track, I understand."

"No, sir, it was a collision. There must have been gross carelessness, sir," said Barry. "I trust there will be an investigation. I have taken the liberty to suggest that, sir, in my report."

Barry's voice was stern.

"You need have no apprehension on that score, sir," said the R. T. O., with his eyes still upon the report. "This is very clear and concise. I see you make no mention of your own services in connection with the affair, but others have. I have had a most flattering telegram from the officer commanding the R. A. M. C., as also from the Divisional Commander, mentioning your initiative and resourcefulness. I assure you this will not be forgotten. I understand you are a padre?"

"Yes, sir," replied Barry, who was getting rather weary of the conversation.

"All I have to say, then, sir, is that the Canadian army must be rich in combatant officers for, if you will pardon me, it strikes me that there is a damned good combatant officer lost in you."

"If I were a better padre," replied Barry, "I would be content."

"I fancy you have little ground for complaint on that score," said the R. T. O., for the first time smiling at him.

"May I ask, sir," replied Barry, "if my responsibility ends here?"

"Yes, unless you want to take charge of the boat."

"I'd rather not, sir, if you please. How long before she sails?"

"About three hours. Have you anything to do?"

"I should like to visit the R. A. M. C. hospital. I should also like to phone the American hospital at Etaples."

"Very well, you can easily do both. I will run you up in my car, if you care to wait a few moments until I put through some little matters here. Then if you will be good enough to join me at breakfast, I can drive you up afterwards to the hospital. This is my car. I think you had better step in and sit down; you look rather used up."

"Will you allow me to speak to some of the men first, sir?"

"Oh, certainly. Do anything you like. There are your men."

As Barry moved along the line of men drawn up on the platform, he was followed by a rising murmur of admiration, until, as he reached a group of officers at the end, a little Tommy, an English cockney, lifting high his rifle, sang out:

"Naow then, lads, 'ere's to our O. D," adding after the cheers, "'e's a bit ov ol raa-ght, 'e is!"

"Men," said Barry, "I thank you for your cheers, but I thank you more for your splendid behaviour night before last. It was beyond praise. You couldn't save all your comrades, but you would willingly have given your lives to save them. That's the true spirit of the Empire. It's the spirit of Humanity. It's the spirit of God. If I were a combatant officer—"

"You'd be a good 'un, sir," cried a voice.

"If I were a combatant officer, I should like to lead men like you into action."

"We'd follow you to 'ell, sir," shouted the little cockney.

"Oh, I hope not," replied Barry. "I'm not going that way. May I say, in wishing you every good luck, that you are a credit to your country, and I can say nothing higher. I wish to thank the officers who so splendidly did their duty and gave such valuable service. Good luck to you, boys, and give my love to all at home."

Again the men broke into cheers, and Barry, shaking hands with the officers, turned away toward the car. As he was entering the car, Sergeant Matthews came over to him.

"I want to thank you, sir, for getting me free of the R. A. M. C. up there. I feel rather bad, but since my wife is waiting to meet me in London, I was anxious to get through."

"All right, sergeant," replied Barry. "I'll get you to a hospital in London, when we arrive. You are not feeling too badly, I hope."

"A little shook up, sir," said the sergeant.

At the R. A. M. C. hospital a bitter disappointment awaited him. He found that the V. A. D. had departed for England, but just where no one seemed to know. In her last letter to him, received before the last tour in the trenches, she had mentioned the possibility of a visit to London, and had promised him further information before her departure, but no further word had he received.

His inquiry at Etaples was equally unproductive of result. Paula and her father had also gone to England. They had taken the V. A. D. with them, and their address was unknown. The matron of the hospital believed that they had planned a motor trip to Scotland, for they had carried Captain Neil Fraser off with them, and were planning a visit to his home. They expected to return in about three weeks.

By the bitterness of his disappointment, Barry realised how greatly he had counted on this meeting with his friends. Were it not for the hope of being able to discover them in England, he would have turned back up the line, there and then, and found among the only friends he had on this side of the ocean relief from the intolerable weight of loneliness that was bearing him down.

He walked out to the cemetery, and stood beside his father's grave. There for the first time it came over him that henceforth he must go all the way of his life without the sight of that face, without the touch of that hand on his shoulder, without the cheer of that voice. In floods his sense of loss swept his soul. It took all his manhood to refrain from throwing himself prone upon the little mound and yielding to the agony that flooded his soul, and that wrought in his heart physical pain. By a resolute act of will, he held himself erect. While he blamed and despised himself for his weakness, he was unable to shake it off. He did not know that his mental and emotional state was in large measure a physical reaction from the prolonged period of exhausting strain, his treble tour in the trenches, with its unrelieved sense of impending destruction, that its endless procession of broken, torn bodies, with its nights of sleepless activity, with its eternal struggle against depression, consequent upon the loss of his comrades, its eternal striving after cheeriness and more than all the shock of the train wreck, with its scenes of horror; all this had combined to reduce his physical powers of resistance to the point of utter exhaustion.

As he stood there in that cemetery with its rows of crosses, silently eloquent of heroism and of sacrifice, the spirit of the place seemed to breathe into him new life. As his eyes fell upon the cross bearing his father's name, he seemed to see again that erect and gallant figure, instinct with life and courage. There came to him the memory of a scene he had never forgotten. Again he was with his father in the little home cottage. How dear it had been to him then! How dear to him, today! Once more he felt the strong grip of his father's hand and heard his father's voice:

"Good night, boy. We don't know what is before us, defeat, loss, suffering, that part is not in our hands altogether, but the shame of the quitter never need and never shall be ours."

Unconsciously as if he were in the presence of a superior officer, he lifted his hand in salute, and with a sense of renewal of his vital energies he returned to the boat.

During the crossing his mind was chiefly occupied with the problem of discovering the whereabouts of the V. A. D. or his American friends. He had never learned her London address, if indeed she had one. He remembered that she had told him that her home had been turned into a hospital. He had some slight hope that he might be able to trace her by the aid of her uncle.

Arrived in London, his first duty was to see Sergeant Matthews, whose injuries in the wreck were apparently more serious than at first supposed, safely disposed in a hospital ambulance. Thereupon he proceeded to the Hotel Cecil, and set himself seriously to the solution of his problem. He was too weary for clear thinking and as the result of long, confused and very vexing cogitation, he resolved upon a letter to Commander Howard Vincent, R. N. R. This, after much labour, he succeeded in accomplishing. Thereafter, much too weary for food, he proceeded to his room, where he gave himself up to the unimaginable luxury of a bath in a clean tub, and with an unstinted supply of clean towels, after which riotous indulgence, he betook himself to bed. As he lay stretched between the smooth clean sheets, he found it impossible to recall a state of existence when clean sheets had been a nightly experience. The chief regret of these semi-unconscious moments preceding slumber was that sleep would rob him of this delicious sense of physical cleanness and well-being.

He was wakened by a knock at his door, followed by a hesitating apology for intrusion. Rejoicing in the luxury of his surroundings, and in the altogether satisfying discovery that he might sleep again, he turned over and once more was lost in profound slumber. A second time he was aroused by a mild but somewhat anxious inquiry as to his welfare.

"I want nothing, only a little more sleep," and again luxuriating for a few moments in his clean sheets and his peaceful environment, he resigned himself to sleep, to waken with a comfortable sense of pleasant weariness, which gradually passed into a somewhat acute sense of hunger.

He decided, after due consideration, that he would plumb the depths of bliss, unmeasured and unknown, and have breakfast in bed. He went to the window and looked out upon the murky light of a London day. He decided that it was still early morning, and rang for the waiter. He was informed by that functionary that breakfast was impossible, but that if he desired he could be supplied with an early dinner.

"Dinner!" exclaimed Barry.

He looked at his watch, but found that he had neglected to wind it, and that consequently it had stopped.

"What time do you make it, waiter?"

"Half after six, sir."

He decided that he would rise for dinner, 'phoned for a paper and his mail, and lay back between the sheets once more, striving to recapture that rapturous sense of welfare that had enwrapped him the night before. Luxuriating in this delightsome exercise, he glanced lazily at the heading of his paper, and then cried, as the paper boy was leaving the room,

"Hello! here, boy! what day is this?"

"Friday, sir," said the boy, gazing at him in astonishment.

"Friday? Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, Friday, sir. What does the paper say, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course. All right."

He had gone to bed on Wednesday night. He knew that because he remembered the date of his letter to Commander Howard Vincent, R. N. R. He made the astounding discovery that he had slept just forty-four hours. Then he made a second discovery and that was that of his precious eight days' leave, three were already gone.

After he had dined he inquired at the desk for his mail, and searched through the telegrams, but there was nothing for him.

Then he betook himself to the streets, aware that the spectre of loneliness was hard on his trail, and swiftly catching up with him. London was roaring around him in the dark, like a jungle full of wild beasts, of whose shapes he could catch now and then horrid glimpses. Among all the millions in the city, he knew of no living soul to whom he could go for companionship, nor was there anything in form of amusement that specially invited him.

There was Grand Opera, of course, but from its associations with his father he knew that that would bring him only acute misery. Gladly would he have gone to the hospitals, but they would be shut against him at this hour. He bought an evening paper, and under a shaded lamp studied the amusement columns. Some of the Revues he knew to be simply tiresome, others disgusting. None of them appealed to him. Aimlessly he wandered along the streets, heedless of his direction, conscious now and then of an additional pang of wretchedness as he caught a glimpse now and then at a theatre door of young officers passing in with sweet faced girls on their arms.

At length in desperation he followed one such pair, and found himself listening to Cinderella. Its light and delicate fancy, its sweet pathos, its gentle humour lured him temporarily from his misery, but often there came back upon him the bitter memory of his comrades in their horrid environment of filth, danger and wretchedness.

He found some compensation in the thought that these officers beside him were like himself on leave, and while he envied them, he did not grudge them their delight in the play, and their obviously greater delight in their lovely companions beside them, but this again was neutralised by the bitter recollection of his own hard fate which denied him a like joy.

After the play he stood in the entrance hall, observing the crowd, indulging his sense of ill-usage at the hands of fate as he saw the officers lingering with many unnecessary touches over the cloaking of their fair partners, and as he caught the answering glances and smiles that rewarded their attentions.

His eyes followed the manoeuvrings of the painted ladies as they hovered about the doors, boldly busy with their profession. He understood as never before the nature of their lure and the overpowering subtlety of the temptation cast by them over the lonely soldier in London.

Close at his side he heard a voice:

"How do you like it, boy? Not bad, eh?"

"Awfully jolly, dad. It's perfectly fine of you."

He turned and saw a grey-haired gentleman, with upright soldierly figure, and walking with him, arm in arm, a young officer, evidently his son. He followed them slowly to the door, and eager to share if he might the joy of their comradeship, he listened to their talk. Then as they disappeared into the darkness, sick at heart, he passed out of the door, stood a moment to get his bearings, and sauntered beyond the radius of the subdued light about the entrance, into the darkness further on.

He had gone but a few paces, and was standing beneath a shaded corner light, meditating the crossing of the roaring street, when he heard behind him an eager voice crying,

"Captain Dunbar! Captain Dunbar!"

Swiftly he turned, and saw in the dim light a dainty figure, opera coat flowing away from gleaming arms and shoulders, a face with its halo of gold brown hair, with soft brown eyes ashine and eager parted lips, a vision of fluttering, bewildering loveliness bearing down upon him with outstretched hands.

"What," he gasped, "you! Oh, you darling!"

He reached for her, gathered her in his arms, drew her toward him, and before either he or she was aware of what he intended to do, kissed her parting lips.

"Oh, how dare you!" she cried, aghast, pushing him back from her, her face in a red flame. "Oh, I'm so glad. I was afraid I should lose you."

Barry, appalled at his own temerity, his eyes taking in the sweet beauty of her lovely face, stood silent, trembling.

"Well, aren't you going to tell me you are glad to see me?" she cried, smiling up at him saucily.

"Phyllis," he murmured, moving toward her.

"Stop," she said, putting her hands out before her, as if to hold him off. "Remember where you are. I ought to be very angry, indeed."

She drew him toward a dark wall.

"But you aren't angry, Phyllis. If you only knew how I have wanted you in this awful place. Oh, I have wanted you."

She saw that he was white and still trembling.

"Have you, Barry?" she asked, gently. "Oh, you poor boy. I know you have been through horrible things. No, Barry, don't. You awful man," for his hands were moving toward her again. "You must remember where you are. Look at all these people staring at us."

"People," he said, as if in a daze. "What difference do they make? Oh, Phyllis, you are so wonderfully lovely. I can't believe it's you, but it is, it is! I know your eyes. Are you glad to see me?" he asked shyly, his hungry eyes upon her face.

"Oh, Barry," she whispered, the warm flush rising again in her cheeks, "can't you see? Can't you see? But what am I thinking about? Come and see mamma, and there's another dear friend and admirer of yours with her."

"Who? Not Paula?"

"No, not Paula," she said, with a subtle change in her voice. "Come and see!"

She took his arm and brought him back to a motor standing at the theatre entrance.

"Oh, mamma, I have had such a race," she cried excitedly, "and I have captured him. Barry, my mother."

Barry took the offered hand, and gazed earnestly into the sad brown eyes that searched his in return.

"And here's your friend," said Phyllis.

"Hello, Pilot," said a voice from a dark corner of the car.

"What, Neil! Oh, you boy," he cried in an ecstasy, pushing both hands at him. "You dear old boy. How is the arm, eh? all right?"

"Oh! doing awfully well," said Captain Neil. "And you?"

"Oh, never so well in all my life," cried Barry. "Yet, to think of it, ten minutes ago, or when was it, I was in there a miserably homesick creature, envious of all the happy people about me, and now—"

While he was speaking, his eyes were on Mrs. Vincent's face, but his hand was holding fast to her daughter's arm. "Now it's a lovely old town, and full of dear people."

"Where are you putting up?" asked Mrs. Vincent.

"The Cecil."

"Let us drive you there then," she said.

During the drive Barry sat silent for the most part, listening to Phyllis talking excitedly and eagerly beside him, answering at random the questions which came like rapid fire from them all, but planning meanwhile how he should prolong these moments of bliss.

"How about supper?" he cried, as they arrived in the courtyard of the hotel. "Come in. I want you to; you see I have so much to ask and so much to tell Captain Fraser here, and three of my days are gone already. Besides, I want you to awfully."

Mrs. Vincent looked at his face, which for all its brightness was worn and deep-lined, and her compassionate motherly heart was stirred.

"Of course we'll come. We want to see you and to hear about your experiences."

"Oh, bully!" cried Barry. "I shall always remember how good you are to me to-night."

He was overflowing with excitement.

"Oh, this is great, Neil. It's like having a bit of the old battalion here to see you again."

While waiting for their orders to be filled at the supper table, Captain Neil turned suddenly to Barry and said, "What's all this about a train wreck and the gallant O. C. train?"

"Yes, and this rescuing of men from burning cars," exclaimed Phyllis.

"And knocking out insubordinates."

"And being mentioned in despatches."

"And receiving cheers at the station."

"Now where did you get all that stuff?" inquired Barry.

"Why, all London is ringing with it," said Captain Neil.

"Nonsense," said Barry; "who's been stuffing you?"

"Well," said Phyllis, "we came across your sergeant to-day in the hospital. Such a funny man."

"Who? Fatty Matthews?" asked Barry, turning to Captain Neil.

"Yes, it was Fatty," said Captain Neil, "and if you had your rights by his account, you ought to be in command at this moment of an army corps at the very least. But you were O. C. leave train, were you not?"

"Yes, to my dismay I was made O. C., but I met a chap, Captain Courtney, a very decent fellow, my adjutant, and made him carry on."

"My word, that was a stroke!"

"We had a wreck, a ghastly affair it was, though it might have been a lot worse. The R. A. M. C. people did magnificently, and the men behaved awfully well, so that we managed to get through."

"And what about the O. C.?" inquired Captain Neil.

"Oh, nothing special. He just saw that the others carried on. Now tell me about you people. What have you been doing and what are you going to do?"

"Well, 'we're here, because we're here,'" chanted Captain Neil.

"And why didn't you send me word as to your movements?" said Barry. "What hours of agony you would have spared me!"

"But I did," replied Phyllis. "I sent you our town address and told you everything."

"Now isn't that rotten!" exclaimed Barry. "Never mind, I've found you, and now what's the programme?"

"Well," cried Captain Neil with great enthusiasm, "we are all off to Edinburgh to-morrow, where we meet the Howlands, and then for a motor trip through the Highlands and to my ancestral home."

Barry's face fell. "To-morrow?" he said blankly, with a quick look at Phyllis. "And you are all going?"

"Not I," said Mrs. Vincent, "but why should you not join the party? You need just such a change. It would do you good."

"Sure thing he will," cried Captain Neil.

During the supper they had firmly resolved to taboo the war. They talked on all manner of subjects, chiefly of the proposed motor trip, but in spite of the ban their talk would hark back to the trenches. For Captain Neil must know how his comrades were faring, and how his company was carrying on, and Barry must tell him of their losses, and all of the great achievements wrought by the men of their battalion. And Barry because his own heart was full of all their splendid deeds let himself go. He told how Sally and Booth had met their last call, of the M. O. and his splendid work in rescuing the wounded.

"No word in all of this of the Pilot, I observe," interjected Captain Neil.

"Oh, he just carried on!"

Then he told how at last the M. O. went out, and how on his face there was only peace. He had to tell of Corporal Thom, and how he gave himself for his comrades and how Cameron kept the faith, a long list of heroes he had to enumerate, of whom the world was not worthy, whose deeds are unknown to fame, but whose names are recorded in the books of God. And then reverently he told of McCuaig.

As Barry talked, his heart was far away from London. He was seeing again that line of mud bespattered men, patiently plodding up the communication trench. He was looking upon them sleeping with worn and weary faces, in rain and mudsoaked boots and puttees, down in their flimsy, dark dugouts. He was hearing again the heavy "crash" of the trench mortar, the earth shaking "crumph" of the high explosive, the swift rush of the whizbang. Before his eyes he saw a steady line of bayonets behind a crumbling wall, then a quick rush to meet the attack, bomb and rifle in hand. He saw the illumined face of his dying friend.

As he told his tale, his face was glowing, his eyes gleaming as with an inner fire.

"Oh, God's Mercy!" he cried, "they are men! They are men! Only God could make such men."

"Yes, only God," echoed Mrs. Vincent after a long pause. "They are God's men, and to God they go at last. Truly they are God's own men."

While Barry was speaking, Phyllis, her hands tightly clasped, was leaning forward listening with glistening eyes and parted lips. Suddenly she rose, and went hurriedly to the door.

"Forgive me," said Barry, turning to Mrs. Vincent. "I should not have talked about these things. It's Neil here that drew me out. It's his fault."

In a few minutes Captain Neil arose and saying, "I'll see where Phyllis has gone," went out at the same door.

"They are very great friends," said Mrs. Vincent. "We are very fond of Captain Fraser. Indeed, he is like one of our family."

"A fine, brave chap he is," said Barry warmly, but with a queer chill at his heart.

"Phyllis has made some very delightful friends in France. Those Americans at Etaples were very good to her," and she continued to chat in her soft, gentle voice, to which Barry gave a courteous hearing but very casual replies. His heart and his ears were attentive for the returning footsteps of those who had so abruptly deserted them. While Mrs. Vincent was talking, an ugly question was thrusting itself upon his attention, demanding an answer. He could see—any one with eyes could see—that there was between Phyllis and his friend Captain Neil some understanding. Just what was between them Barry longed to know. It flashed upon him that upon the answer to that question his whole future hung, for if this girl was more than friend to Captain Neil, then the joy of life had for him been quenched. No motor trip for him to-morrow. He had had enough heart-wrenching to bear as it was without that. No! If between these two a closer relation than that of mere friendship existed, his way was clear. He would return to the trenches to-morrow.

"Oh, here you are, dear," said Mrs. Vincent, as Phyllis and Captain Neil returned to the room. "You found the air too close, I fear."

"No," said Phyllis with simple sincerity, "it was Barry. I saw those men, and I could not bear it. I can't bear it now." Her lips were still trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears.

"And yet," said Barry, "when you were over there in the midst of it all, you never once weakened. That's the wonder of it. You just go on, doing what you must do. You haven't time to reflect, and it's God's mercy that it is so. Thank God we have our duty to do no matter what comes. Without that life would be unbearable."

"Now, what about to-morrow?" said Captain Neil briskly, as Mrs. Vincent rose from the table. "We must settle that. What about it, Barry?"

"I don't know. Do you think I should go? It's your party and it's already made up."

"Not quite," said Phyllis, looking shyly at him. "You belong to the party more than any of us, you know."

"Then what about Paula?" said Barry. "This is her party, is it not?"

Phyllis was silent.

"I think, Captain Dunbar," said Mrs. Vincent, "if you would like it, you ought to go. You need something of the kind, and you will fit in admirably with the party, I am quite sure. To-day," she added with a little laugh, "I was doubtful as to the propriety of these young people going off all the way to Edinburgh by themselves, but you know in these war times we do extraordinary things, but now if you join them, my scruples will be removed."

"Some chaperon," whispered Captain Neil audibly to Phyllis. Then he added briskly, "Well, then, that's settled. To-morrow at 8:37 we meet at King's Cross, 8:37, remember."

But for Barry the matter was far from settled.

"I can't quite make up my mind to-night," he said. "I shall be at King's Cross, however, in the morning at any rate."

"But, Barry," began Phyllis, protesting, "you must—I want—"

She ceased speaking abruptly, her face flushing and then going suddenly white.

"Oh, rot, old man," said Captain Neil, impatiently, "you will come. Of course he'll come," he added to Phyllis.

They moved together out of the room, Mrs. Vincent and Captain Neil leading the way.

"Oh, Barry, aren't you going?" said Phyllis in a low voice.

"How can I answer that?" he replied, almost in anger. "Do YOU ask me to go? Do YOU want me to go?"

"Of course, we all want you to go," said the girl.

"Is that your answer?" His voice was tense; his face strained. "If that is all, Phyllis, I must say 'Good-bye' to-night. Why should I go with you? Why should I stay here in London? There's nothing for me here. The war is the only place—"

"Oh, Barry," she said, her eyes bright with tears, "how unkindly, how terribly you talk." Then with a swift change of mood she turned upon him. "What right have you to talk like that?" she cried in sudden wrath. "What have I done—what have we done to you?"

"Wait, Phyllis," he cried desperately. "Oh, let them go on," he added impatiently. "For Heaven's sake, is there no place about here where I can talk to you?" They were both pale and trembling. "I must talk to you to-night—now—at once." He stood between her and the door. "Can't you see I love you? I love you, do you hear? If you don't love me, why should I live?"

"Oh, Barry," said the girl, in a hurried voice. "You must not talk like this. Come this way. I know this place." She hurried out by a side door, down a corridor, and into a small parlour, with cosy corners, where they were alone.

"Now, Phyllis," said Barry, facing her, with a settled fierceness in his voice and manner. "I am quite mad, I know, to love you, but I do. I can't help it any more than breathing. I have no right to tell you this, perhaps. I am nobody, and I have nothing to offer any girl. I see that now. Oh, I see that clearly now, but I never thought of that part of it before. I only loved you. How could I help it? I hardly knew myself until tonight. But I know now," he added in a voice of triumph, the gloom lifting from his face, and the fierce light fading from his eyes. "Yes, I know now, Phyllis. I love you. I shall always love you. I love you and I am glad to love you. Nothing can take that from me."

All this time she was standing before him, her face white, her lips parted, a look of wonder, almost of fear, in the brown eyes, so bravely holding his, her hands pressed hard upon her bosom, as if to stay its tumult.

"I have no right to say this to you," said Barry again. "You belong to a great family. Perhaps you are rich. Great Heavens!" he groaned. "I never thought of that. You are beautiful. Many men will love you, great men and rich men will love you. You are so wonderful. Why, there's Captain Neil, he—"

"Captain Neil," echoed Phyllis, with infinite scorn in her voice.

"Well, many men."

"Many men," she repeated, her lips beginning to tremble. "Oh, Barry, can't you see? You blind boy. There's only one man for me, Barry, and that's you, just you." She came near to him, laid her hands upon his breast, her eyes looking into his.

"Phyllis," he said, putting his arms round her, a great wonder in his voice. "It can't be true! Oh, it can't be true! Yet your eyes, your dear eyes say so. Phyllis, I do believe you love me."

The little hands slid up around his neck; he drew her close.

"Phyllis, my dear, dear, love," he whispered.

He felt her body suddenly relax, and as she leaned backwards in his arms, still clinging to him, he bent over her and his lips met hers in a long kiss.



CHAPTER XVIII

A WEDDING JOURNEY

"Just a moment, if you please, Paula. I should like to get down a few notes of this bit. Oh, what a view! Lake, moor, hills, mountains, village!"

Mr. Howland sprang from the car, sketchbook in hand, and ran forward to a jutting rock that commanded the wide valley, flanked by hills, in whose bosom lay a loch, shimmering in the morning light. The car drew up on the brow of a long and gently sloping incline, which the road followed until it disappeared in a turn at the village at the loch's end.

"Get the little church tower in, father, and a bit of the castle. I can see it from here," said Paula, standing upon the motor seat.

"I shall try this further rock," said her father. "Ah, here it is. Do come, all of you, and get this. Oh, what a perfectly glorious view!"

The little group gathered about him in silence, upon a little headland that overlooked the valley, and feasted upon the beauty that spread itself out before them, the undulating slope and shimmering loch, the wide moors and softly rounded hills, the dark green masses of ragged firs, and the great white Bens in the far distance, and below them, in the midst the human touch, in a nestling village with its Heaven-pointing spire.

"Hark!" said Paula.

From across the loch there floated up to them, soft and mellow as an angel's song, the sound of a bell.

Mr. Rowland dropped his sketchbook, took off his hat, and stood as if in worship. The other men followed his example.

"Father," said Paula, "let's go to church."

"Hush," said her father, putting up his hand, and so stood for some moments.

"Oh, Scotland, Scotland!" he cried, lifting his arms high above his head, "no wonder your children in exile weep for their native land."

"And your men fight and die for you," added Paula, glancing at Captain Neil.

"Thank you," said Captain Neil, turning quickly away.

"Yes," said Paula, "we shall go to church here, father."

The church stood against a cluster of ancient firs, in the midst of its quiet graves, yew shaded here and there. Beside it stood the manse, within its sweet old garden, protected by a moss covered stone wall.

At its gate the minister stood, a dark man with silvering hair, of some sixty years, but still erect and with a noble, intellectual face.

"Let us speak to him," said Paula, as they left their car.

With characteristic reserve, Barry and Neil shrank from greeting a stranger, but with fine and easy courtesy Mr. Howland bared his head, and went up to the minister.

"We heard your bell's invitation, sir," he said, "and we came to worship with you."

A grave smile touched the dark face.

"You rightly interpreted its message," he said. "Let me repeat its welcome."

"We are Americans, at least my daughter and I are," said Mr. Howland, presenting Paula, a frank smile upon her beautiful face, "and this is her young friend from London, Miss Vincent, and these young officers are of the Canadian army."

"Canadians!" exclaimed the minister, meeting them with both hands. "Oh, you are indeed welcome."

"We are all in the war, sir, I would have you know," added Mr. Howland.

The minister looked puzzled.

"Let me explain," said Barry. "Mr. Rowland and his daughter are on leave from their own hospital which they have set up in France. Miss Vincent is from the base hospital in Boulogne."

Like the sun breaking upon the loch in a dull day, a smile broke over the dark face. He threw the gate wide open.

"In the name of my country, in this its dark hour, let me give you welcome," and once more he shook them each by the hand. "We have still half an hour before worship," he continued. "Pray do me the honour of entering my manse."

They followed him up the shrubbery-flanked gravel walk to the door.

"Enter," he said, going before them into the manse. "Jean! Jean!" he called.

"Yes, dear," came a voice like the sound of a silver bell, and from another room issued a lady with a face of rare and delicate loveliness. Her soft, clinging black gown, with a touch of white at her throat, served to emphasise the sweet purity of her face, but cast over it a shade of sadness at once poignant and tender.

"My dear, this is Mrs. Robertson," he said simply; "these friends, Americans and Canadians, are from the war."

At that word she came to greet them, her face illumined by a smile inexpressibly sweet, but inexpressibly sad. "You are welcome, oh, very welcome," she said, in a soft Scotch voice. "Come in and rest for a few moments."

"Our young friend here, Captain Dunbar, is chaplain of a distinguished Canadian regiment."

"They are all distinguished," said the lady.

"A chaplain?" said the minister. "My dear sir, we should be grateful for a message for our people from the front—"

"Oh, yes, if you would," added his wife.

"But," protested. Barry, "I want to hear some one else preach. One gets very tired of one's own preaching, and besides I'm a very poor preacher."

"I'll take that risk, but I will not press you," said the minister courteously.

"Do, Barry," said Paula in a low voice, but he shook his head.

"I see you have some soldier friends at the front," said Mr. Rowland, pointing to a photograph on the mantel of a young officer in Highland dress.

"Our son, sir," said the minister quietly.

"Our only son," added his wife quietly. "He was in the Black Watch." Her voice, with its peculiar bell-like quality, was full of pride and tenderness.

"Oh," said Phyllis, turning to her with quick tears in her eyes and holding out her hand.

"Ah," said the lady, "you too? Your brother?"

"My two brothers."

"My dear child! My dear child!" said the minister's wife, kissing her. "Your mother was greatly privileged," she added gently.

It was a deeply moving scene.

"Madam," said Mr. Howland, wiping his eyes, "forgive me, but you mothers are the wonder of the war."

"There are many of us in this glen, sir," she replied. "We cannot give our lives, sir. We can only give what is dearer than our lives, our dear, dear sons, and, believe me, we don't grudge them."

"Madam," said Mr. Howland, "the whole world honours you and wonders at you."

"Sir," said Barry, obeying a quick impulse, "I cannot preach, but may I tell your people something about their boys and how splendid they are?"

"Thank you," said the minister.

"Oh, would you?" cried his wife. "There are many there who feel only the loss and the sorrow. You can tell them something of its splendour."

By this time in the eyes of all the visitors there were tears, but on the faces of the minister and his wife there was only the serene peace of those who within the sacred shrine of sacrifice have got a vision of its eternal glory.

"Barry," said Paula, drawing him aside, "I love you for this, but do talk about something, or I shall surely cry. These people break my heart."

"Oh, no," said Barry, looking at them, "there are no tears there. They have been all the way through."

"Like people, like priest!" The folk that gathered in the little church that morning were simple people of the glen, shepherds and cotters from the countryside, humble villagers. They were women for the most part, with old men and children. The girls were away at the munition plants, the young men at the war, fighting or lying under their little crosses or in their unknown and unmarked graves, on one of Britain's five battle fronts, or under the tossing waters of the Seven Seas where Britain's navy rides, guarding the world's freedom. Simple peasant folk they were, but with that look of grave and thoughtful steadfastness with which Scotland knows how to stamp her people.

The devotions were conducted by the minister with simple sincerity, and with a prophet's mystic touch and a prophet's vision of things invisible.

Barry made no attempt at a sermon. He yielded himself to the spirit of the place, the spirit of the manse and its people, whose serene fortitude under the burden of their sorrow had stirred him to his soul's depths. Their spirit recalled the spirit of his own father and the spirit of the men he had known in the trenches. He made a slight reference to the horrors of the war. He touched lightly upon the soldiers' trials but he told them tales of their endurance, their patience, their tenderness to the wounded, their comradeship, their readiness to sacrifice. Before he closed, he lifted them up to see the worth and splendour of it all and gave them a vision of the world's regeneration through the eternal mystery of the cross.

They listened with uplifted face, on which rested a quiet wonder, touched with that light that only falls where sacrifice and sacrament are joined. There were tears on many faces, but they fell quietly, without bitterness, without passion, without despair.

A woman with a grief worn face waited for him at the foot of the pulpit stairs, the minister's wife and Phyllis beside her.

"Mrs. Finlayson wishes to speak to you," she said.

"Ay, ay! I jist want to say that you had the word for me the day. I see it better the noo. A'm mair content that ma mon sud be sleepin' oot yonder." She held Barry's hand while she spoke, her tears falling on it, then kissed it and turned away.

"And this," said the minister's wife, "is Mrs. Murray, who has given three sons, and who has just sent her last son away this week."

"Three sons," echoed Barry, gazing at the strong face, beaten and brown with the winds and suns of fifty years, "and you sent away your last. Oh, I wonder at you. How could you?"

"A cudna haud him back wi' his three brithers lyin' oot there, and," she added, with a proud lift of her head, "and wudna."

It took some minutes for Barry to make his way through to the door. He wanted to greet them all. He had a feeling that he was there not in his own person but as a representative standing between two noble companies of martyrs, those who had gone forth to die, and those who had sent them.

"You have done us a great service to-day, sir," said the minister in bidding Barry good-bye.

"It was a privilege to do it," said Barry as he shook hands with the minister and his wife. "I shall tell the men about you and your people."

"My dear, my dear, is he your man?" asked the minister's wife as she held Phyllis' hand.

"He is," said Phyllis, glancing at Barry with shy pride.

"And he leaves you soon?"

"In two days," replied the girl, with a quick breath.

"Don't let him away till you give yourself wholly to him. Why not to-morrow? It's a mother's word."

"That's what I say," cried Paula impulsively, seeking to cover the girl's blushing confusion. "Neil," she added, turning to him, "I should love to be married in just such a dear little church as this."

"All right," said Neil. "I know another just like it, and I shall show it to you next week."

They wandered down by the loch's side. Passing a boat-renting establishment, Paula suddenly exclaimed,

"My Land of Liberty, look there, Barry!"

"What?"

"A canoe," she cried, running toward it. "A Canadian canoe!"

"A genuine Peterboro," he cried, following her. "Where did you get this?" he inquired, turning to the boatman.

"My boy brought it with him from Canada, sir. He is an engineer. I have his whole outfit in the house—tent, camp things and all. He is at the war himself."

"Oh, Barry, look at the dear thing. What does it make you think of?" She glanced at Barry's face and added quickly, "Oh, I know. Forgive me. I'm a fool!"

"Come along, Phyllis," said Barry, drawing her away with him. "I want to talk to you."

"We shall take lunch in half an hour, Barry," called Mr. Howland after him. "We're due at Pitlochry, you know, for dinner."

"All right, sir," said Barry. "We'll be on hand."

"I wonder if she's got the nerve," said Paula to Captain Neil as they stood looking after them.

"I wonder," said Captain Neil, looking at her. "Would you?"

"Would I," said Paula, with sudden shyness. "I—but you are not going away in two days."

"No, thank the good Lord," said Captain Neil, fervently, "but, Paula, I'll not forget."

At Pitlochry they found their mail awaiting them.

"A telegram for you, Barry," said Paula, who had assumed the duty of postman.

They all paused in examining their mail to watch Barry open his wire.

"Guess," he shouted, holding his telegram high.

"Oh, glory, I know!" exclaimed Paula. "Extended leave. How much?"

"'Oh, excellent young maid, how much elder art thou than thy looks!'"

"Oh, Barry!" exclaimed Phyllis. "How much?"

"Five days, five whole days."

"Humph! It's the least they could do. They might have made it ten," grumbled Paula.

"Mr. Howland, may I speak to you a moment?" Barry's look and voice were eloquent of resolve.

"Certainly, Barry. Immediately?"

"If you please, sir."

They retired to a corner, where Barry could be seen with ardent look and vehement gesture putting his proposition to Mr. Howland, whose face showed mingled pleasure and perplexity. The others waited patiently for the conference to end.

"Oh, pshaw!" said Paula, "Barry ought to know by this time that the pater simply can't make up his mind without me. I know what they are at."

She moved over to them.

"Now, father, of course you will do as Barry wishes," she declared. "Oh, I know what he wants. Now listen to me. Just wire Mrs. Vincent that everything is perfectly all right, that you can guarantee Barry, and that it's the sensible thing, the only thing to do under the circumstances. Oh, we'll have it in that dear little church. Splendid. Perfectly ripping! Eh, Phyllis? Come over here at once. Now, father, get busy on the wire. Why waste a perfectly good hour in just talking about it? What do you say, folks? How many say 'Ay'?"

Up went Barry's two hands, and with them Neil's and Paula's.

"What about you, miss?" asked Paula, turning wrathfully toward Phyllis.

Phyllis walked quietly to Barry's side.

"Barry," she said, giving him her hand, "I have decided to be married to-morrow. I shall wire mamma."

Barry answered her only with his eyes.

"By Jove!" said Paula, "you Britishers are the limit, for stolid, unemotional people. Here am I shouting my head off like a baseball fan, to get this thing put through, and you quietly walk up and announce that everything's fixed but the band."

The wires to London that afternoon were kept busy, a message going to Mrs. Vincent from each member of the party, but it was felt that that from Phyllis to her mother was really all that was necessary.

"Dearest Mamma—Barry and I are to be married tomorrow. English law makes London impossible, as Barry has only five days. I am very happy, feeling sure you approve. Our dearest, dearest love.

"Phyllis."

A long wire also went from Barry to Mr. Robertson, the minister of the little church, where they had spent such a delightful hour that morning, but this wire Barry showed to no one.

The bride's bouquet was from the manse garden, a shower of white roses, no purer and no sweeter than the bride herself. At the church door, the party stood shrinking from the moment of parting. At length Paula took matters in hand.

"As usual," she said, "the heavy work falls to me. Dear Mrs. Robertson"—to the minister's wife—"goodbye. I shall always love you and your dear little church."

She put her arms around the minister's wife and kissed her.

"Oh, we're going to see them off," said that lady. "Lead the way, Captain Dunbar, please," she added, with a bright smile, giving him a little push.

"Come, Phyllis," said Barry offering his wife his arm, and they started off down the street toward the lake.

"Will you permit me?" said the minister, offering his arm to Paula, who in mystified silence took it without a word.

"May I have the pleasure?" said Mr. Howland, offering his arm to Mrs. Robertson.

"Come, Captain Fraser," she said gaily, offering him the other arm.

"Just what is happening to me, I don't pretend to know," said Paula, "but whatever it is, America is in this thing to the finish."

Barry stopped at the boathouse landing. There, tied to the dock, floated the Canadian canoe, laden with tent and camp outfit, and with extra baskets provided from the manse.

"Oh, Barry, how wonderful! How perfectly wonderful!" cried Paula in an ecstasy of delight.

In that farewell there were tears and smiles, but more smiles than tears. The last to touch their hands was Paula. She managed to draw them apart from the others, with her eyes glistening with unaccustomed tears. "You deserve each other. Phyllis," she whispered, alternately shaking and kissing her, "there was a day when I would have fought you for him, until Neil came. Barry, you dear boy, you may kiss me goodbye, and oh, may you both live forever."

"Goodbye, dear Paula," cried Phyllis. "You have been so lovely to me from the very first. I shall never, never forget you."

"Goodbye, Paula," said Barry, "dearest of all dear friends."

She stooped to steady the canoe, while Phyllis stepped to her place in the bow.

"Goodbye to all of you. God love you and keep you all," said Barry.

He took his paddle and stepped into the canoe, Paula still stooping over it to keep it steady.

"Dear, dear Barry," she whispered, and for the first time her tears fell. "Goodbye! Goodbye!"

Together the little company stood watching them away, Phyllis in the bow, not paddling, sat with her face toward them, Barry swinging his paddle with graceful, powerful strokes, until just at a curve of the shore, where some birches overhung the water, he swung the canoe half round, and with paddle held Voyageur fashion in salute, they passed out of sight.



CHAPTER XIX

THE PILOT'S LAST PORT

The little Canadian army was done with The Salient. The British tradition established in the third month of the war, in that first terrific twenty-two days' fight by Ypres, that that deadly convex should be no thoroughfare to Calais for the Hun, was passed on with The Salient into Canadian hands in the early months of 1915. How the little Canadian army preserved the tradition and barred "the road-hog of Europe" from the channel coast for seventeen months, let history tell, and at what cost let the dead declare who lie in unmarked graves which, following the curving line of trenches from Langemarck through Hooge and Sanctuary Wood over Observation Ridge to St. Eloi, and the dead under those little crosses that crowd the cemeteries of The Salient and of the clearing stations in the rear, and the living as well, who through life will carry the burden of enfeebled and mutilated bodies.

For seventeen months the Canadians in shallow dugouts and behind flimsy trenches endured the maddening pounding of the Huns' guns, big and little, without the satisfaction of reprisal, except in raid or counter-attack, suffering the loss of two-thirds of their entire force, but still holding. Now at length came the welcome release. They were ordered to the Somme. Welcome not simply because of escape from an experience the most trying to which an army could be subjected, but welcome chiefly because there was a chance of fighting back.

They had no illusions about that great battle area of the south, echoes of whose titanic struggle had reached them, but they longed for a chance to get back at their foe. Besides, the Somme challenged their fighting spirit. That glorious assault of the first of July of the allied armies which flung them upon the scientifically prepared, embattled and entrenched "German Frontier," with its fortified villages, its gun stuffed woods, its massed parks of artillery, and defended by highly disciplined and superbly organised soldiery, stirred them like a bugle call. For two years the master war-makers of the world had employed scientific knowledge, ingenuity and unlimited resources upon the construction of a system of defence by means of which they hoped to defy the world, and upon which when completed they displayed the vaunting challenge, "We are ready for you; come on!"

In that great conflict there was no element of surprise. It was a deliberate testing out of strength, physical and moral. For the first time in the war the British army stood upon something like even terms in manpower and in weight of metal, with, however, the immense handicap still resting upon it that it was the attacking force. The result settled forever the question of the fighting quality of the races. When the first day's fight was done, on a battle front of twenty miles the British armies had smashed a hole seven miles wide, while their gallant allies, fighting on an eight-mile front, had captured the whole line. In two weeks' time, the seven-mile hole was widened to ten. Fortified villages, entrenched redoubts, woods stuffed with guns, great and small, had gone down before that steady, relentless, crushing advance. The full significance of the Somme had not dawned as yet upon the world. The magnitude of the achievement was not yet estimated, but already names hitherto unknown were flung up flaming into the world's sky in letters of eternal fire, Ovillers, Mametz Wood, Trones Wood, Langueval, Mouquet Farm, Deville Wood for the British, with twenty-one thousand prisoners, and Hardecourt, Dompierre, Becquin-Court, Bussu and Fay for the French allies, with thirty-one thousand prisoners.

On that line of carefully chosen and elaborately fortified defences, the proudest of Germany's supermen of war had been beaten at their own game by the civilian soldiers of "effete and luxury loving Britain," and the republican armies of "decadent France," and still the Homeric fight was raging. Foot by foot, yard by yard, the Hun was fighting to hold the line which should make good his insolent claim to the hegemony of the world. Step by step, yard by yard, that line was being torn from his bloody fingers. Into that sea of fire and blood, the Canadians were to plunge. They remembered Langemarck and Sanctuary Wood and St. Eloi, and were not unwilling to make the plunge. They thought of those long months in The Salient, when the ruthless Hun from his vantage ground of overwhelming superiority had poured his deadly hail from right flank, left flank, front and rear, upon them, holding, suffering, dying, day by day, month by month, and they were grimly jubilant over the chance which the Somme offered them of evening somewhat the score.

"We have something to hand Fritzie," young Pickles was heard to remark when he had learned of the quality of the Somme fighting, "and I hope he'll like it, for he's got to take it."

The battalion ranks, both officers and men, had once more been filled up. They had a brief fortnight's training in the new open fighting under barrage and then set off cheerfully for the "Big Game." Ten days they marched and countermarched in the back country, keeping clear of those two mighty streams "up" and "down," that flowed between ditches and hedges along the road that led to the great arena, and catching glimpses and echoes as they marched until, hard, fit, keen, they joined the "upstream" flowing toward Albert. That stream was made up of those various and multifarious elements that go to constitute, equip and maintain a modern army.

There were marching battalions, with their mounted officers, bearing names and insignia famous in the world's wars for two hundred years, and with them battalions who a few brief months ago were peaceful citizens, knowing nothing of war. There were transport columns, ammunition columns, artillery columns, with mounted escorts. There were big guns, on huge caterpillar trucks, shouldering the lighter traffic to the ditches, and little guns slipping meekly in their rear. There were motor lorries, honking and thundering their insistent way through dodging, escaping, cursing infantry, forty-six miles of them to a single army corps. There were strings of mules and horses with weirdly shaped burdens on their pack saddles. There were motor cars bearing "Brass Hats," gentle looking individuals, excessively polite, yet somehow getting men to jump when they spoke, and everywhere ambulances, silent and swift moving, before whose approach the stream parted in recognition of the right of way of these messengers of mercy over all the enginery of war.

The "down stream" was much the same, with here and there differences. That stream flowed more swiftly. The battalions marched with more buoyant tread. They had done their part and without shame. They had met their foes and seen their backs. The trucks, transport and ammunition wagons were empty and coming with a rush. Only the ambulances moved more slowly. Carefully, with watchful avoidance of ruts and holes, which, in spite of the army of road-mending Huns, broke up the surface of the pavements these ambulances made their way. They must get through no matter what was held up.

And as they flowed these streams ever and anon broke their banks and flooded over in little eddies into villages and fields, there to tarry for a day and a night, only to be caught up again in either one of those resistless inevitable currents of war.

"Look before you, major," said Barry, who was riding with the Headquarters Company at the head of the column, as often now at the invitation of the O. C.

The column was slowly climbing a long gentle sloping hill that reached its apex some two or three miles away. On either side, spread out over the fields, as far as the eye could reach, were military encampments, in tents, in huts and in the open. Infantry units, horse lines, motor truck parks, repair camps for motors and for guns, ammunition dumps with shells piled high, supply sheds bulging with their canvas-covered contents, Red Cross huts and marquees, and Y. M. C. A. tents with their cues of waiting soldiers, getting "eats" and drinks, and comforts of various kinds. The whole countryside was one mighty encampment packed with munitions and supplies and thronging with horses, mules and men.

"This is war on the 'grand scale,'" said the O. C. dropping back beside them. "From the top of this hill we can see Albert and a part of the most famous battle-field of all time. We camp just outside of Albert on what is known as the 'brick field,' and in a couple of days more we shall be in it. Well," he continued, with a glance over the column following, "the boys never were more fit."

"And never more keen," said the major. "They are right on their toes."

"Major, I expect to meet the divisional commander down here, and I want you to be there. Captain Dunbar, you know him, I believe. He has asked especially that you should be there as well."

"Yes, sir, I have met the General. To my mind he is an ideal soldier."

"Yes, and an ideal officer," said the O. C. "He knows his job and he is always fit and keen."

At the top of the hill, a traffic officer, a young lieutenant from the Imperial forces, diverted the column from the road into a field.

"Why is this?" inquired the O. C.

"There's the answer, sir," said the officer coolly.

There was a long drawn whine which rapidly grew into a shriek and an H. E. shell dropped fair in the road, a short distance in front.

"Oh, I see, you have some of these birds down in this country, too."

"Yes, sir, this is their breeding ground," said the young lieutenant.

Once more came the long whining shriek and the terrific blast of the H. E., this time closer.

"I would not delay, sir, if I were you," said the young chap coolly, pulling out his cigarette case. "They get rather ugly at times."

"What about you?" inquired the O. C. moving off.

"Part of my job, sir," replied the youth, saluting.

"Well, good luck, boy," said the O. C., trotting to the head of the column.

"Thank you, sir," said the youth, turning to his job again.

They rode a hundred yards, when another shell came, there was a terrific explosion, apparently just at the spot where the young officer had been standing.

"By Jove! I'm afraid that's got him," said the O. C.

"I'll go and see, sir," said Barry, spurring his horse back to the spot.

"Come back here, Barry," called the major. "Darn him for a fool! What's the use of that? That isn't his job," he added angrily.