ur
chaplains--Christian and Canadians. I am an Anglican myself, but on this
side of the channel there are no Anglican, no Presbyterian, no Methodist
chaplains, only Christian and Canadian chaplains. I have had to fight
for this with high officials both in the army and in the church. I have
won out, and while I'm here this will be maintained. The second thing is
Spirituality. The Chaplain must be a Christian man, living in touch with
the Divine--alive toward God. Third, Humanity. He must be 'touched
with the feeling of our infirmity,' sharing the experiences of the men,
getting to know their feelings, their fears, their loneliness, their
misery, their anxieties, and God knows they have their anxieties for
themselves and for their folks at home."

As Barry listened, he heard again his father's voice. "They need you.
They are afraid. They are lonely. They need God."

"And remember," said the A. D. C. S., as he rose to close the interview,
"that I am at your back. If you have any difficulty, let me know. If you
are wrong, I promise to tell you. If you are right, I'll back you up.
Now, let us go and look over the hospital. There are some of our fellows
there. If you feel like saying anything in the convalescent ward, all
right, but don't let it worry you."

As they went through the wards, Barry could not but notice how the faces
of the patients brightened as his chief approached, and how their eyes
followed him after he had passed.

They moved slowly through those long corridors, sanctified by the
sufferings and griefs and hidden tears of homesick and homelonging men,
to many of whom it seemed that the best of life was past.

When they had gone the length of the convalescent ward, the A. D. C.
S. turned and, after getting permission of the medical superintendent,
briefly introduced Barry to the wounded men, as "a man from the wild and
woolly Canadian west, on his way up the line, and therefore competent to
tell us about the war, and especially when it will end."

Beside them stood a piano, and on it lay a violin in its open case.
Barry took up the violin, fingered its strings in an absent-minded way,
and said:

"I don't know anything about the war, men, but I do know when it
will end, and that is when we lick those Huns good and plenty, as our
American friends would say," bowing to the doctor at his side. "I'm an
awfully poor speaker, boys," he continued in a confidential tone, "but I
can make this thing talk a bit."