"Oh, yes, if you would," added his wife.

"But," protested. Barry, "I want to hear some one else preach. One gets very tired of one's own preaching, and besides I'm a very poor preacher."

"I'll take that risk, but I will not press you," said the minister courteously.

"Do, Barry," said Paula in a low voice, but he shook his head.

"I see you have some soldier friends at the front," said Mr. Rowland, pointing to a photograph on the mantel of a young officer in Highland dress.

"Our son, sir," said the minister quietly.

"Our only son," added his wife quietly. "He was in the Black Watch."

Her voice, with its peculiar bell-like quality, was full of pride and tenderness.

"Oh," said Phyllis, turning to her with quick tears in her eyes and holding out her hand.

"Ah," said the lady, "you too? Your brother?"

"My two brothers."

"My dear child! My dear child!" said the minister's wife, kissing her.

"Your mother was greatly privileged," she added gently.

It was a deeply moving scene.

"Madam," said Mr. Howland, wiping his eyes, "forgive me, but you mothers are the wonder of the war."

"There are many of us in this glen, sir," she replied. "We cannot give our lives, sir. We can only give what is dearer than our lives, our dear, dear sons, and, believe me, we don't grudge them."

"Madam," said Mr. Howland, "the whole world honours you and wonders at you."

"Sir," said Barry, obeying a quick impulse, "I cannot preach, but may I tell your people something about their boys and how splendid they are?"

"Thank you," said the minister.

"Oh, would you?" cried his wife. "There are many there who feel only the loss and the sorrow. You can tell them something of its splendour."

By this time in the eyes of all the visitors there were tears, but on the faces of the minister and his wife there was only the serene peace of those who within the sacred shrine of sacrifice have got a vision of its eternal glory.

"Barry," said Paula, drawing him aside, "I love you for this, but do talk about something, or I shall surely cry. These people break my heart."

"Oh, no," said Barry, looking at them, "there are no tears there. They have been all the way through."

"Like people, like priest!" The folk that gathered in the little church that morning were simple people of the glen, shepherds and cotters from the countryside, humble villagers. They were women for the most part, with old men and children. The girls were away at the munition plants, the young men at the war, fighting or lying under their little crosses or in their unknown and unmarked graves, on one of Britain's five battle fronts, or under the tossing waters of the Seven Seas where Britain's navy rides, guarding the world's freedom. Simple peasant folk they were, but with that look of grave and thoughtful steadfastness with which Scotland knows how to stamp her people.

The devotions were conducted by the minister with simple sincerity, and with a prophet's mystic touch and a prophet's vision of things invisible.

Barry made no attempt at a sermon. He yielded himself to the spirit of the place, the spirit of the manse and its people, whose serene fortitude under the burden of their sorrow had stirred him to his soul's depths. Their spirit recalled the spirit of his own father and the spirit of the men he had known in the trenches. He made a slight reference to the horrors of the war. He touched lightly upon the soldiers' trials but he told them tales of their endurance, their patience, their tenderness to the wounded, their comradeship, their readiness to sacrifice. Before he closed, he lifted them up to see the worth and splendour of it all and gave them a vision of the world's regeneration through the eternal mystery of the cross.

They listened with uplifted face, on which rested a quiet wonder, touched with that light that only falls where sacrifice and sacrament are joined. There were tears on many faces, but they fell quietly, without bitterness, without passion, without despair.

A woman with a grief worn face waited for him at the foot of the pulpit stairs, the minister's wife and Phyllis beside her.

"Mrs. Finlayson wishes to speak to you," she said.

"Ay, ay! I jist want to say that you had the word for me the day. I see it better the noo. A'm mair content that ma mon sud be sleepin' oot yonder." She held Barry's hand while she spoke, her tears falling on it, then kissed it and turned away.

"And this," said the minister's wife, "is Mrs. Murray, who has given three sons, and who has just sent her last son away this week."

"Three sons," echoed Barry, gazing at the strong face, beaten and brown with the winds and suns of fifty years, "and you sent away your last.

Oh, I wonder at you. How could you?"

"A cudna haud him back wi' his three brithers lyin' oot there, and," she added, with a proud lift of her head, "and wudna."

It took some minutes for Barry to make his way through to the door. He wanted to greet them all. He had a feeling that he was there not in his own person but as a representative standing between two noble companies of martyrs, those who had gone forth to die, and those who had sent them.

"You have done us a great service to-day, sir," said the minister in bidding Barry good-bye.

"It was a privilege to do it," said Barry as he shook hands with the minister and his wife. "I shall tell the men about you and your people."

"My dear, my dear, is he your man?" asked the minister's wife as she held Phyllis' hand.

"He is," said Phyllis, glancing at Barry with shy pride.

"And he leaves you soon?"

"In two days," replied the girl, with a quick breath.

"Don't let him away till you give yourself wholly to him. Why not to-morrow? It's a mother's word."

"That's what I say," cried Paula impulsively, seeking to cover the girl's blushing confusion. "Neil," she added, turning to him, "I should love to be married in just such a dear little church as this."

"All right," said Neil. "I know another just like it, and I shall show it to you next week."

They wandered down by the loch's side. Passing a boat-renting establishment, Paula suddenly exclaimed,

"My Land of Liberty, look there, Barry!"

"What?"

"A canoe," she cried, running toward it. "A Canadian canoe!"

"A genuine Peterboro," he cried, following her. "Where did you get this?" he inquired, turning to the boatman.

"My boy brought it with him from Canada, sir. He is an engineer. I have his whole outfit in the house--tent, camp things and all. He is at the war himself."

"Oh, Barry, look at the dear thing. What does it make you think of?" She glanced at Barry's face and added quickly, "Oh, I know. Forgive me. I'm a fool!"

"Come along, Phyllis," said Barry, drawing her away with him. "I want to talk to you."