Without further preface he began to play. He had not held a violin in his hands since he had played with his father at home. Unconsciously his fingers wandered into the familiar notes of Handel's Largo. He found the violin to possess an exceptionally rich and pure quality of tone.

As he began to play, a door opened behind them, admitting Paula, the V. A. D. and two or three young doctors, who took their places in the corner about the piano.

"Do you know this?" whispered Paula to the V. A. D., as she caught the strains of the Largo.

"Yes. I used to play it with my brother."

"Go to it, then," said Paula.

But the V. A. D. hesitated.

"Go on! Look at the boys, and look at his face."

The V. A. D. glanced about the room at the lines of pale and patient faces, which, in spite of the marks of pain, were so pathetically and resolutely bright. Then she glanced at Barry's face. He had forgotten all about his surroundings, and his face was illumined with the light from those hidden lamps that burn deep in the soul of genius, a light enriched and warmed by the glow of a heart in sympathy with its kind.

In obedience to Paula's command and a little push upon her shoulder, the V. A. D. sat down at the piano and touched the notes softly, feeling for the key, then fell in with the violin.

At the first note, Barry turned sharply about and as she found her key and began to follow, he stepped back to her side. Immediately, from his instrument, there seemed to flow a richer, fuller stream of melody. From the solemn and stately harmonies of the Largo, he passed to those old familiar airs, that never die and never lose their power over the human heart--"Annie Laurie" and "Ben Bolt," and thence to a rollicking French chanson, which rather bowled over his accompanist, but only for the first time though, for she had the rare gift of improvisation, and sympathetic accompaniment.

Then with a full arm bowing, he swept them into the fiercely majestic strains of the "Marseillaise," bringing the blue-coated orderlies about the door, and such patients as could stand, and the group about the piano to rigid attention. From the "Marseillaise" it was easy to pass into the noble simplicity of his own national song, "Oh, Canada!"

where again his accompanist was quite able to follow, and thence to the Empire's National Anthem, which had for a hundred years or more lifted to their feet British soldiers and sailors the world over.

As he drew his bow over the last chord, Paula stepped to his side, and whispered in his ear:

"Where's America in this thing?"

Without an instant's break in the music, he dropped into a whimsical and really humorous rendering of "Yankee Doodle." Quickly the V. A. D. moved from the stool, caught Paula and thrust her into the vacant place. Then together the violin and piano rattled into a fantastic and brilliant variation of that famous and trifling air. Again, with a sudden change of mood, Barry swung into that old song of the homesick plantation negro, "The Suwanee River"--a simple enough air, but under the manipulations of a master lending itself to an interpretation of the deep and tender emotions which in that room and in that company of French, British, Canadian, American folk were throbbing in a common longing for the old home and the "old folks at home." Before he had played the air once through, the grey-haired American doctor was openly wiping his eyes, and his colleagues looking away from each other, ashamed of the tears that did them only honour.

Paula's flushed face and flashing eyes were eloquent of her deep emotion, while at her side the V. A. D. stood quiet, controlled, but with a glow of tender feeling shining in her face and in her soft brown eyes.

Not long did Barry linger amid those deeps of emotion, but straightening his figure to its full height, and throwing up his head, he, in full octaves, played the opening bars of what has come to be known as America's national anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner."

Instantly the A. D. C. S., the orderlies about the door, the wounded French, British and Canadian soldiers that could stand, sprang to attention and so remained while the violin, with its piano accompaniment, throbbed forth the sonorous chords. With the last bar, Barry dropped his bow to his side, but held the violin still at his chin. Not one of that company moved, but stood with their eyes fastened upon his face. After a moment's pause, he quietly lifted his bow again, and on the silence, still throbbing to the strains of that triumphant martial air, there stole out pure, sweet, as from some ethereal source, the long drawn, trembling notes of that old sacred melody, which, sounding over men and women in their hours of terror and anguish and despair, has lifted them to peace and comfort and hope--"Nearer, My God, to Thee."

The tension which had held the company was relaxed, the wounded men sank to their seats, the A. D. C. S. removed his hat, which, according to military regulations, he had worn to this moment. On all sides, heads dropped in an attitude of reverence, and so continued until Barry had drawn the last deep, vibrating note to a close.

When he had laid his violin in its case, the old American doctor came forward, with his hand extended.

"Let me, as an American and a Christian, thank you, sir," he said.

One by one the group of Americans came to shake hands with him, the last being Paula, who held his hand a moment and said softly:

"Thank you, Barry. I believe all that stuff now. I have learned it here."

The last of all to come was the V. A. D. Shyly, with a smile radiant through her tears, she offered her hand, saying: "Thank you! He would have liked that, I know."

"Captain Dunbar, where's your own violin?" The abrupt tone of the A. D.

C. S. startled them all.

"At home, sir. I didn't think a chaplain would need one."

"Whose violin in this?" asked the A. D. C. S. in his brusque manner.

"I rather think this is mine," said one of the doctors.

"Will you sell it? I'll buy it from you, at any price you say. I want it for him."

"You can't buy it, colonel," said the doctor. "It's his now. I never knew it had all that heart stuff in it."

He took up the violin, and handed it to Barry. But Barry drew back in astonishment. Then the old doctor came forward.

"No, Travis," he said, "we'll do better than that. What did your fiddle cost?"

"A hundred and fifty dollars, I think."

"Travis, this company of Americans, representing their country here in France, as a token of their sympathy with the allies and their sacred cause, and of gratitude to you, sir," bowing to Barry, "will buy this instrument and present it to this young man, on condition that he repeat in similar circumstances the service he has rendered this afternoon. Am I right?" he asked, looking about him.

"You bet you are! Right you are!" said the doctors.

"Oh, doctor, you are a dear old thing!" exclaimed Paula.

Barry stood holding the instrument in his hand, unable to find his voice. The A. D. C. S. came to his aid.

"In the name of my chaplain, and in the name of thousands of Canadian soldiers to whom I promise you he will bring the blessing that he has brought us this afternoon, I thank you for this very beautiful and very characteristic American act."

"Well," said the old doctor, "I don't know how you folks feel, but I feel as if I had been to church."

"Now, sir," said the A. D. C. S. to Barry, in his military tone, "I am organising a company of musicians who will go through our camps and help the boys as you have helped us to-day. I would like you to be one of them. What do you say?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Barry hastily, laying the violin upon the piano and standing back from it, "don't make that an order, sir. I want to stay with my men."

His face was quivering with deep emotion. The A. D. C. S. looked into the quivering face.

"All right, Dunbar," he said, with a little laugh, and putting his hand on Barry's shoulder. "I guess you are all right."

"Some boy! What?" said the American doctor. "Here I think you had better take your fiddle along," handing Barry the violin. "It doesn't belong to any one in this bunch."

The burst of laughter that followed, all out of proportion to the humour of the remark, revealed the tensity of the strain through which they had passed.

Through the little town of Etaples they drove together in almost complete silence, until they had emerged into the country, lying spread out about them in all the tender beauty of the soft spring evening. As the car moved through the sweet silence of the open fields, the V. A. D.

said softly:

"Oh, Captain Dunbar, I--"

"My name is Barry," he said gently.

A quick flush came into the beautiful face and a soft light to the brown eyes, as she answered: