of the French priest who confessed a dying Catholic boy
through a Y. M. C. A. Protestant secretary interpreter, in a Y. M. C.
A. hut, has been told far and wide, but it is only illustrative of the
broadening lines of Catholicism and the wider fraternal relations of
all professed Christians.

The marvellous story that my friend, the French chaplain, tells of
being marooned in a shell-hole at Verdun for several days with a
Catholic priest, and of their discussion of religion and life there
under shell-fire, and the tenderness with which the Catholic priest
kissed the hand of the Protestant French chaplain when the two had
agreed that, after all, there was one common God for a common,
suffering nation of people, and that this war would break all church
barriers down, and that out of it would come a new spirit in the
Catholic church, a new brotherhood for all. That was an impressive
indication of the thing that is sweeping France to-day in church
circles, and that will sweep America after the war.

Then there is that other story of the Catholic priest who had been in
the same regiment with a French Protestant chaplain, each of whom
deeply respected the other because of the unflinching bravery that each
had displayed under intense shell-fire, and of the great love that each
had seen the other show in two years of constant warfare in the same
regiment. Then came that terrible morning at Verdun, when the French
Protestant chaplain, the friend of the Catholic priest, had been killed
while trying to bring in a wounded Catholic boy from No Man's Land. On
the day of this Protestant chaplain's funeral the Catholic priest stood
in God's Acre with bared head, and spoke as tender and as sincere a
eulogy as ever a man spoke over the grave of a dear friend, spoke with
the tears in his eyes most of the time. Church lines were forgotten
here. It was a prophetic scene, this, where a Catholic priest spoke at
the funeral of a Protestant chaplain. It was prophetic of that new
church brotherhood that is to come after the war is over.

XI

SKY SILHOUETTES

They are the lights, the lights of war. Sometimes they are just the
stars shining out that makes the wounded soldier out in No Man's Land
look up, in spite of shell-fire and thunder, in spite of wounds and
death, in spite of loneliness and heartache, in spite of mud and rain,
to exclaim, as Donald Hankey tells us in a most wonderful chapter of "A
Student in Arms": "God! G