rew wide open the door.

Nowhere is class privilege more appreciated and more jealously guarded
than in the sergeants' mess. It is the most enclusive of all military
circles. Realising this, Barry was glad to accept the invitation. The
hut was filled with sergeants in easy deshabille, smoking, lounging,
playing various games.

"The chaplain, boys," announced the sergeant major, and instantly every
man was on his feet, and at attention.

"It's all right, boys," said the sergeant major. "The chaplain has just
dropped in for a minute for a friendly call, and we want you to feel,
sir," he added, for the sergeant major loved a little ceremonial, "that
we respectfully sympathise with you in your loss, and that we consider
ourselves honoured by your presence here tonight."

Barry was so deeply touched by the unexpected warmth of their welcome,
and by the reference to his recent sorrow, that he could not trust
himself to speak. Without a word he passed around the group, shaking
hands with each man in turn. By the time he had finished the round, he
had his voice in control, and said:

"Sergeant major, this is very kind of you. I thank you for this welcome,
and I am grateful for your sympathy." He hesitated a moment or two;
then, as if he heard his father's voice, "Tell them! Tell them! They
don't know Him," he added: "And, sergeant major, if you will allow me,
I have something I want to say to all the men when I get a chance. I
cannot say it all to-night to the sergeants, but this much I would like
to say: That since I saw you, I believe I have got a new idea of my work
in the battalion. I got it from a sergeant major whose men told me that
he was a fine soldier and a brave man, and more than that, that he was
'like a father to them.' That, sergeant major, was my own father. From
him I learned that my job was not to jump on men for their faults, but
to help men to know God, who is our Father in Heaven, and, men, I think
if I can do this, I shall count myself happy, for He is worth knowing,
and we all need Him."

His words gripped them hard. Then he added, "Before I say 'good night,'
may I have the privilege of leading you to Him in words that you have
all learned at your mother's knee?" Then simply he spoke the words of
that immortal prayer, the men joining in low and reverent voices.

After the prayer, he quietly said, "Good night!" and was passing out of
the hut. He had not got to the door, however, when the sergeant ma