eously.

"Do, Barry," said Paula in a low voice, but he shook his head.

"I see you have some soldier friends at the front," said Mr. Rowland,
pointing to a photograph on the mantel of a young officer in Highland
dress.

"Our son, sir," said the minister quietly.

"Our only son," added his wife quietly. "He was in the Black Watch."
Her voice, with its peculiar bell-like quality, was full of pride and
tenderness.

"Oh," said Phyllis, turning to her with quick tears in her eyes and
holding out her hand.

"Ah," said the lady, "you too? Your brother?"

"My two brothers."

"My dear child! My dear child!" said the minister's wife, kissing her.
"Your mother was greatly privileged," she added gently.

It was a deeply moving scene.

"Madam," said Mr. Howland, wiping his eyes, "forgive me, but you mothers
are the wonder of the war."

"There are many of us in this glen, sir," she replied. "We cannot give
our lives, sir. We can only give what is dearer than our lives, our
dear, dear sons, and, believe me, we don't grudge them."

"Madam," said Mr. Howland, "the whole world honours you and wonders at
you."

"Sir," said Barry, obeying a quick impulse, "I cannot preach, but may I
tell your people something about their boys and how splendid they are?"

"Thank you," said the minister.

"Oh, would you?" cried his wife. "There are many there who feel only the
loss and the sorrow. You can tell them something of its splendour."

By this time in the eyes of all the visitors there were tears, but on
the faces of the minister and his wife there was only the serene peace
of those who within the sacred shrine of sacrifice have got a vision of
its eternal glory.

"Barry," said Paula, drawing him aside, "I love you for this, but do
talk about something, or I shall surely cry. These people break my
heart."

"Oh, no," said Barry, looking at them, "there are no tears there. They
have been all the way through."

"Like people, like priest!" The folk that gathered in the little church
that morning were simple people of the glen, shepherds and cotters from
the countryside, humble villagers. They were women for the most part,
with old men and children. The girls were away at the munition plants,
the young men at the war, fighting or lying under their little crosses
or in their unknown and unmarked graves, on one of Britain's five battle
fronts, or under the tossing waters of the Seven Seas where Britain's
navy rides, guarding the