"Oh, it's you!" he cried.

It was the little V. A. D.

"Don't rise," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, and pointing to his father. "Drink this first." She handed him an eggnog. "Now take your tea." There was a quiet authority about her that compelled obedience. He ate in silence while she stood beside him. He was too weary and too sick at heart to talk, but he gradually became aware that the overpowering sense of loneliness that had been with him all day was gone.

When he had finished his slight meal, he whispered to her:

"I wish I could thank you, but I can't. I did need it. You have helped me greatly."

"You are better now," she said softly. "It's very, very hard for you, so far from home, and from all your friends."

"There is no one else," said Barry simply. "We have no one but just ourselves."

At this point his father opened his eyes bright and very wide-awake.

The V. A. D. began to gather up the tea things. Barry put out his hand and touched her arm.

"Dad, this is your night nurse. She was very kind to me last night, and again to-night. This is Miss Vincent."

The brightness of the V. A. D.'s smile outshone his own.

"I'm not a real nurse," she said. "I'm only a V. A. D., you know. They use me to wash the floors and dishes, and for all sorts of odd jobs.

To-night they are shorthanded, and have put me on this duty."

While she was speaking, she continued to smile, a smile of radiant cheer and courage.

The wounded man listened gravely to her, his eyes searching her face, her eyes, her very soul, it seemed to her. In spite of her experience and her self-control, she felt her face flushing under his searching gaze.

"My dear," he said at length, "I am glad to meet you. You are a good and brave girl, I know." His eyes fell upon the black band upon her arm. "I see you are wearing the badge of heroism. My dear, pardon me, you have the same look--Barry, she has your dear mother's look, not so beautiful--you will forgive me, my dear--but the same look. She thinks of others and she has courage to suffer. My dear, I cannot take your hands in mine,"--he glanced with a pathetic smile at his bandaged arms, but with a swift movement of indescribable grace the girl stooped and kissed him on the forehead.

"Barry," he said, turning to his son, "that was a fine courtesy. I count it an honour to have known you, Miss Vincent."

He paused a moment or two, his searching eyes still upon her face.

"You will befriend my boy, after--after--"

"I will try my best, sir," said the girl, the colour deepening in her cheeks the while. "Good night, sir," she said. "I shall be near at hand if I am wanted."

"Barry," said his father, after the girl had gone, "that is a very charming and a very superior young lady, one you will be glad to know."

"Yes, dad, I am sure she is," said Barry, and then he told his father of the events of the previous night.

For some moments after he had finished his father lay with his eyes shut, and quite still, and Barry, thinking he slept, sat watching, his eyes intent upon the face he loved best in all the world.

But his father was not asleep.

"Yes, Barry," he said, "she is like your dear mother, and now," he added hurriedly, "I hope you will not think I am taking a liberty--"

"Oh, dad, I implore you!" said Barry.

"Barry, I would like to speak to you about your work."

Barry shook his head sadly.

"I'm not much good, dad," he said, "but I'm not going to quit," he added quickly, noting a shadow on his father's face.

"Barry, I'm going to say something to you which I do hope will not hurt you. I know the common soldier better than you do, boy. Our Canadian soldiers do not like to be rebuked, criticised or even watched too closely. Forgive me this, my boy."

"Oh, dad, please tell me all that is in your heart!"

"Thank you, Barry. They don't like the chaplain to be a censor over their words."

"I loathe it," said Barry passionately.

"Believe me, they are good chaps in their hearts. They swear and all that, but that is merely a habit or a mere expression of high emotion.

You ought to hear them as they 'go over.' Barry, let all that pass and remember that these boys are giving their lives--their lives, Barry, for right, for conscience, and ultimately, though it may be unconsciously, for God. Barry, a man that is giving his life for God may say what he likes. Don't be too hard on them, but recall to mind, Barry, that when they go up the line they feel terribly lonely and terribly afraid, and that is a truly awful experience."

He paused a moment or two, and then lowered his voice and continued: "Barry, you won't be ashamed of me. I was terribly afraid, myself."

Barry choked back a convulsive sob.

"You, dad, you!" He laughed scornfully.

"I didn't run, Barry, thank God! But the boys--my boys--they are only lads, many of them--lonely and afraid--and they must go on. They must go on. Oh, Barry, in that hour they need some one to go with them. They need God."

His son was listening with his heart in his eyes. He was getting a new view of the soldier and of the soldier's needs.

"Unhappily," continued his father, "God is at best a shadowy being, to many of them a stranger, to some a terror. Barry," he said, "they need some one to tell them the truth about God. It's not fair to God, you know." Here again his father paused and then said very humbly: "I think I may say, Barry, I know God now, as I did not before. And you helped me, boy, to know him."

"Oh, dad," cried Barry, passionately. "Not I! I don't know Him at all!"

"Let me tell you how you helped me, Barry. Before I went up the last time, I wanted--"

He paused abruptly, his face working and his lip quivering.

"Forgive me, my boy. I'm a little weak."

A few moments of silence and then he continued quietly:

"I wanted you, Barry."

The boy's hands were writhing under his knees, but his face and eyes were quite steady.

"I was terribly lonely. I thought of that strange, dear bond that held us together, and then like a flash out of the sky came those great words: 'Like as a father pitieth his children,' and oh, boy, boy! It came to me then that as I feel toward my boy God feels toward me. Barry, listen--" His voice fell to a whisper. "I am God's son, as you are mine. There was no more fear, and I was not nearly so lonely. Tell the boys--tell the boys the truth about God."

He lay a long time silent, with his eyes closed, and as Barry watched he saw two tears fall down the white cheeks. It was to him a terrible sight. Never, not even at his mother's grave, had he seen his father's tears. It was more than he could endure. He put his face down beside his father's on the pillow.

"Dad, I understand," he whispered. "I know now what God is like. He is like you, dad. He gave himself for us, as you, dad, have given yourself all these years for me."