"Wait a moment, doctor," said Barry, breathing hard.

They stood still, a silent and sympathetic group of soldiers about them.

Barry turned from them, walked a few steps, his clasped hands writhing before him, then stood with his face uplifted to the sky for a few moments.

"All right, doctor, I'll follow," he said, coming quietly back. "Will he know me?"

"Sure thing, sir," said the sergeant major cheerily. "He was asking for you."

On a stretcher, waiting to be lifted into the ambulance, he found his father, lying white and still.

"Dad!" cried Barry, dropping to his knees beside him. He put his arms around him on the stretcher, and kissed him on both cheeks and on the lips. They all drew back from the stretcher and turned their backs upon the two.

"Barry, my boy. Thank the good God! I feared I would not see you. It's all right now. Everything is all right now. I can't put my arms around you, boy. I haven't any left."

Barry's shudder shook the stretcher.

"Dad, dad, oh, dad!" he whispered, over and over again.

"It's all right," whispered his father. "We must not forget we're soldiers. Help me to keep up, boy. I'm not very strong."

That pitiful word did for Barry what nothing else could do. He lifted his head, stood up and drew a deep breath.

"Sure thing, dad," he said, in a clear, steady voice. "I mustn't keep you."

He motioned to the bearers. Then suddenly recollecting that his duty would call him away from his father, he turned to the M. O., an agony of supplication in his voice.

"Oh, doctor, must I leave him here?" he asked in a low tone.

Just then an orderly came running up to him, and, saluting, said:

"Sir, the Commanding Officer says you are to remain behind with your father--till--till--"

"Until you are sent for," said the M. O. "I will see to that."

"Where's the Commanding Officer?" cried Barry, starting forward.

"He has gone off somewheres, sir. He was sorry he couldn't come himself, but he was called away. He sent that message to you."

"Doctor, will you remember to thank the Commanding Officer for me?" he said briefly, and turned to follow his father into the ambulance, which he discovered to be in charge of his friend, the sergeant of the R. A.

M. C.

At the hospital he was received with every mark of solicitous care. He was made to feel that he was among friends.

"How long, doctor?" he asked, after the doctor had finished his examination.

"Not long, I'm afraid. A few hours, perhaps a day. He will not suffer though," said the doctor. "But," he added, taking Barry by the arm, "he is very weak, remember, and must not be excited."

"I know, doctor," said Barry, quietly. "I won't worry him."

Through the morning Barry sat by his father's cot, giving him, under the directions of the nurse, such stimulants as he needed, now and then speaking a quiet, cheery word.

Often his father opened his eyes and smiled at him.

"Good to see you there, my boy. That was my only grief. I feared I might not see you again. Thank the good God that he allowed me to see you."

"He is good, dad, isn't He? Good to me; good to us both."

"Yes, He is good," said his father, and fell asleep. For almost two hours he slept, a sleep of exhaustion, due to the terrific strain of the past forty-eight hours, and woke refreshed, calm and strong.

"You are a lot better, dad," said Barry. "I believe you are going to pull through, eh!"

"A lot better, Barry," said his father, "but, my boy, we are soldiers, you and I. I shall not be long, but remember, we are soldiers."

"All right, dad. I'll try to play the game."

"That's the word, Barry. We must play the game, and by God's grace we will, you and I--our last game together."

Through the afternoon they talked, between intervals of sleep, resolved each to help the other in playing to the end, in the manner of British soldiers, that last, great game.

They talked, of course, of home and their happy days together, going far back into the earlier years of struggle on the ranch.

"Hard days, Barry, they were, but your mother never failed me. Wonderful courage she had, and if we were all right, you and I, Barry, she was always happy. Do you remember her?"

"Yes, dad, quite well. I remember her smiling always."

"Smiling, my God! Smiling through those days. Yes, that's the way she played the game, and that's the only way, boy."

"Yes, dad," said Barry, and his smile was brighter than ever, but his knuckles showed white where he gripped the chair.

The nurse came and went, wondering at their bright faces and their cheery voices. They kept their minds upon the old happy days. They recalled their canoe trips, their hunting experiences, dwelling mostly upon the humorous incidents, playing the game. Of the war they spoke little; not at all of what was to be after--the past, the golden, happy past, rich in love and in comradeship, that was their one theme.

As night fell, the father grew weary, and his periods of sleep grew longer, but ever as he woke he found his son's face smiling down upon him.

"Good boy, Barry," he said once, with an understanding look and an answering smile. "Don't try too hard, my boy."

"It's all right, dad. I assure you it's all right. You know it is."

"I know, I know, my boy," he said, and fell asleep again.

As the midnight hour drew on, Barry's head, from sheer weariness, sunk upon his breast. In his sleep he became aware of some one near him. He sat up, dazed and stupid from his exhaustion and his grief, and found a nurse at his side.

"Take this," she said softly. "You will need it." She set a tray at his side.

"Oh, thank you, no!" he said. "I can't eat. I can't touch anything."

"You need it," said the nurse. "You must take it, for his sake, you know. He will need you."

Her voice aroused him. He glanced at her face.