was so
glad you came--an honest-to-goodness preacher," and he smiled again, so
bravely, in spite of his suffering, and in spite of the news that I had
just broken to him.

Then we prayed. I stood beside his bed holding his hand and praying.
The room was full of other wounded boys, but in the twilight I doubt if
a lad there knew what we were doing. I spoke low, just so he could
hear, and the Master knew what was in my heart without hearing.

When I was through I felt a pressure of his hand, and he said: "Now I
feel stronger. He is helping me bear my burden. Thank you for coming,
and"--then he paused for words "and--thank you for bringing Him."

Yes, there is suffering in France, suffering among our soldiers, too,
but suffering that is glorified by courage.

X

SOLDIER SILHOUETTES

One night down near the front lines as we drove the great truck slowly
over the icy roads, on the top of a little knoll stood a lone sentinel
against a background of snow, and that is a silhouette that I shall
never forget.

Another night there was a beautiful afterglow, and being a lover of the
beautiful as well as a driver of a truck, I was lost in the wonder of
the crimson flush against the western hills.

"Makes me homesick," said the big man beside me, whose home is in the
West. "Looks for all the world like one of our Arizona afterglows."

"It is beautiful," I replied, and then we were both lost in silent
appreciation of the scene before us, when suddenly we were startled
witless.

"Halt!" rang out through the semi-darkness. "Who goes there?"

"Y. M. C. A." we shot back as quick as lightning, for we had learned
that it doesn't pay to waste time in answering a sentinel's challenge
down within sound of the German guns.

"Pass on, friends," was the grinning reply. That rascal of a sentry
had caught us unawares, lost in the afterglow, and he was tickled over
having startled us into astonishment.

But even though he did give us a scare, I am sure that the picture of
him standing there in the middle of that French road, with his gun
raised against the afterglow, will be one of the outstanding
silhouettes of the memories of France.

Then there was the old Scotch dominie down at Chateau-Thierry, with the
marines. The boys called him "Doc," and loved him, for he had been
with them for eight months.

One night, in the midst of the hottest fighting in June, the old
secretary thought he would go out in the night and