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 Ba