od. He would put himself
in the places where God ought to be, and when he saw any indication that
God was there he would cry out until he made God hear him!

The day he came to that conclusion was Sunday and he went over to the
Y.M.C.A. Auditorium. They were having a Mary Pickford moving picture show
there. If he had happened to go at any time during the morning he might
have heard some fine sermons and perhaps have found the right man to help
him, but this was evening and the men were being amused.

He stood for a few moments and watched the pretty show. The sunlight on
Mary's beautiful hair, as it fell glimmering through the trees in the
picture reminded him of the red-gold lights on Ruth Macdonald's hair the
morning he left home, and with a sigh he turned away and walked to the
edge of camp where the woods were still standing.

Alone he looked up to the starry sky. Amusement was not what he wanted
now. He was in search of something vague and great that would satisfy,
and give him a reason for being and suffering and dying perhaps. He
called it God because he had no other name for it. Red-gold hair might be
for others but not for him. He might not take it where he would and he
would not take it where it lay easy to get. If he had been in the same
class with some other fellows he knew he would have wasted no time on
follies. He would have gone for the very highest, finest woman. But
there! What was the use! Besides, even if he had been--and he had
had--every joy of life here was but a passing show and must sometime come
to an end. And at the end would be this old problem. Sometime he would
have had to realize it, even if war had not come and brought the
revelation prematurely. What was it that he wanted? How could he find out
how to die? Where was God?

But the stars were high and cold and gave no answer, and the whispering
leaves, although they soothed him, sighed and gave no help.

The feeling was still with him next morning when the mail was
distributed. There would be nothing for him. His mother had written her
weekly letter and it had reached him the day before. He could expect
nothing for several days now. Other men were getting sheaves of letters.
How friendless he seemed among them all. One had a great chocolate cake
that a girl had sent him and the others were crowding around to get a
bit. It was doubtful if the laughing owner got more than a bite himself.
He might have been one of the group if he had chos