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