During the recital of this tale, Monroe stood looking at Barry and when he had finished his eyes were shining with tears.

"Ay, sir, he was a man, sir," he said at length.

"Yes, you have said it, Monroe. He was a man, just a common man, but uncommonly like God, for He did the same thing. He gave Himself for us."

Monroe turned away to his work in silence.

"Monroe," said Barry, calling him back, "look here, lad, it would not be right for us to grieve too much for Corporal Thom. We ought to be thankful for him and proud of him, should we not?"

"Yes, sir, I know, sir, but," he added while his lip trembled, "you hate to lose your chum."

Only under compulsion of his conscience did Barry go to the cinema show that night, which in this camp was run under the chaplain service and by a chaplain. He knew what the thing would be like. His whole soul shrunk from the silly, melodramatic films which he knew would constitute the programme as from a nauseating dose of medicine. The billboard announced a double header, a trite and, especially to Canadians, a ridiculous representation of the experiences of John Bull and his wife and pretty daughter as immigrants to the Canadian Northwest, which was to be followed by the immortal Charlie Chaplin.

The cinema hut was jammed--the whole battalion, now much reduced in numbers, officers and men being present, and with them the men of the base units and transports of other battalions. It was in some senses an unusual gathering. There was an entire absence of the wonted chaff and uproarious horseplay; instead a grave and almost bored air rested upon the men's faces. The appalling experiences of the past thirteen days seemed to dwarf all other things in comparison. They had been in the presence of the Big Thing; all else seemed petty; they had been looking into death's cold eyes; after that other sights seemed trivial. Many of them carried sore hearts for their comrades with whom they had at other times foregathered in just such circumstances as these, but nevermore again.

It was the custom in the battalion, as the officers came into such gatherings as this, to receive them with a ripple of applause, but to-night there was silence. Barry arrived late. When he appeared there fell upon the men a hush, and then as he moved toward the front seats reserved for the officers, the men began to rise until the whole battalion was standing silent and motionless, and so remained until he had found a seat. It was Major Bayne who called his attention to this unusual demonstration, which was reserved only for great occasions and for nothing less than a battalion commander.

"They are saluting you, Pilot," said Major Bayne in a whisper, himself standing with the other officers.

Barry quickly lifted his eyes, saw the men standing, with all eyes directed toward him, slowly looked over the rows of faces, smiled a bright but slightly wavering smile, turned and saluted the Commanding Officer, and sat down all trembling and shaken by this most touching tribute of sympathy and affection.

The show began with some pictures of great allied leaders which excited a mild interest and drew some perfunctory applause. Then came the tragic comedy of John Bull's experiences as an immigrant, when just as the interest began to deepen, the machine blew up, and the pictures were off for the night.

Ordinarily such a contretemps would have been by no means fatal to the evening's enjoyment, for in the battalion there was no lack of musical and other talent, and an impromptu entertainment was easily possible.

Ordinarily, too, in such an emergency there would at once have arisen a demand for the chaplain, who had come to be recognised as a great standby in times of need such as this. To-night, however, everything seemed changed. The mild suggestion of one of the men that the chaplain should take the piano was promptly discouraged by the dissenting growls of the others present. They knew well how their chaplain was feeling.

"What shall we do?" asked Major Bayne of Barry.

"Get Coleman to the piano. He is a perfect wizard," suggested Barry, indicating a young lieutenant who had come to the battalion with the recent draft, and who had done some accompaniments for Barry's violin playing.

Lieutenant Coleman, on being called for, went to the piano, and began to play. He was indeed a wizard as Barry had said, with a genius for ragtime and popular music hall ditties, and possessed also of the further gift of improvisation that made his services invaluable on just such an occasion as this.

From one popular air to another he wandered, each executed with greater brilliance than the last, but he failed to excite anything more than a mild interest and approval. The old songs which on other occasions had been wont to let loose the song birds of the battalion seemed to have lost their power. It was not gloom, but a settled and immovable apathy which apparently nothing could break.

"This is going awfully slow," said Major Bayne to Barry. "I wish something could be done."

"The boys are tired out," answered Barry, himself weary and sick of the performance and longing more than anything else for solitude and his cot.

The Commanding Officer came over and sat beside them. He was obviously worried and uneasy.

"I don't like this," he said to the major. "Coleman is doing his best, and is doing mighty well, but there is no heart in the boys, and it isn't entirely due to physical weakness. I wish we could start something that would wake them up before they leave. They would sleep much better."

"The Pilot here can do it," said Major Bayne in an undertone, "but I rather hate to ask him for he is pretty much all in."

They sat a little while longer listening to the men's half hearted drawling of "The Tulip and the Rose."

"This won't do," said the O. C. abruptly. "Get Dunbar over here."

"Dunbar," said the O. C. when Barry had come to him. "This thing is as dull as ditchwater. I want to get the boys started up a bit. They are hopelessly dull. Look at their eyes. Do you know what they are seeing?"

"Yes, sir," said Barry, "they are seeing what they have been looking at for the last thirteen days."

"You are right, Dunbar, and that's what I want them to forget. Now I know you don't feel very fit, and I hate to ask you, but I believe you can do something for the men with that violin of yours. What do you say?"

"I have already sent a man for it," said Major Bayne. "I knew he'd do it, and his violin lies there under the piano."

Without announcement or preface Barry walked straight to the stage where Coleman, having miserably failed to strike fire with "The Tulip and the Rose," was grinding out, with great diligence and conscientious energy, "Irish Eyes." Barry picked up his violin from the floor, mounted the stage, laid his violin on the piano, then he took his place behind the pianist and, bending over him, reached down, caught him under the legs and while still in full tide of his performance, lifted him squarely off the stool and deposited him upon a chair at one side of the stage. Then, ignoring the amazed look upon Coleman's face, he proceeded gravely to tune his violin to the piano. The act itself, the cool neatness with which it was performed, the astonished face of the outraged pianist, all together created a situation excessively funny. The effect upon the audience was first one of surprise, then of unalloyed delight.

Immediately every man in the hall was wide awake, and as the humour of the situation grew upon them, they began to cheer in quite a lively manner.

When Barry put his violin to his chin they cheered again, for often had he bewitched them with the magic of his instrument.

Before he began to play, he glanced over his shoulder at the discomfited Coleman and remarked in an undertone, perfectly audible throughout the hall, "Now we'll have some music."

Again the audience went off in a perfect storm of delighted cheers, which were renewed from time to time as Barry would turn looking with a grave face upon the still amazed Coleman, not yet quite recovered from his first astonishment.

When quiet was finally restored, Barry began to play. For his opening number he made a daring choice. It was the intricate but altogether tuneful Ballade and Polonaise by Vieuxtemps. Throughout the somewhat lengthy number he held his audience fixed under the mastery of his art.

It was a triumph immediate and complete. When he had finished the last brilliant movement of the Polonaise, the men burst again into enthusiastic cheering, moved not only by the music but more by the spirit of their chaplain, which they could not fail to understand and appreciate.

He had already achieved what the O. C. had desired, but he was not yet done with them. Having finished his classical selection, which he was quite well aware Coleman could not touch, he turned to the latter and gravely motioned him to the piano stool. Coleman hesitated, not knowing quite what would be demanded of him.

"Come on, Coleman, be a sport," shouted a young officer, the audience joining once more in encouraging cheers.

Still Coleman hesitated. One never knew just what vagary the chaplain might put on. Failing to move him by imploring gesture, Barry finally approached him, and with elaborate, courteous formality, offered him his hand, and finally conducted him to the piano stool. Again the delighted audience went into a roar of cheers.

From that moment, and for a full hour, Barry had them at his will, now listening spellbound to some simple old heart song, now beating hand and foot to a reel, now roaring to the limit of their lung power some old and well-loved popular air.

"Ain't he a bird?" said the major to the Commanding Officer.

"He's fine," assented the Commanding Officer with a great sigh. "I can't tell you what a burden he has lifted from me. It's worth a week's rest to the men, and, poor chaps, they need it." Lowering his voice, he leaned over to the major and said, "We may be going up again to-morrow night."

"To-morrow night, colonel!" exclaimed the major, aghast.

"Not a word, but I have exceedingly grave news. The front line is driven in. One of the battalions holding is completely wiped out."

"Wiped out? Good God, and where are the enemy?"

"As far as I can hear, although I haven't the particulars, they have broken through from Hooge to Hill 60, are through Sanctuary Wood, and down to Maple Copse. Two relief battalions have gone up and are holding.

The chances are we shall have to go to back them up to-morrow evening.

It's hard on the boys, for they have come through a long and bitter experience, but not a word of this, major, to any one. We shall let them have their rest to-night. That's why I was so anxious about this entertainment. That's why I am particularly grateful to that Pilot of ours. He is a wonder, and by the look of him he is about all in. He is staying magnificently with the game. And now, major, I am going to do something that will please him immensely. At least I think it will."

At a pause in the music, the O. C. arose and moved toward the stage.

Barry at once stepped back to the rear. Standing before the men, the O.

C. spoke briefly:

"I wish to thank in your name, men, our chaplain, and his assistant, Mr.

Coleman, for the very delightful evening they have given us. I know how you feel by the way I feel myself. I need say no more, and now, seeing that we have missed our parade service for the last two Sundays, and as I should not like the chaplain to become rusty in his duty, I'm going to ask him to bring our very pleasant evening to a close with a little service such as he himself would suggest."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when Barry took up his violin and said: