illumine the dark page of war.  Of a truth, some noble qualities grow under war’s red rain.  Methinks I hear the Master’s voice, “Well done, good and faithful servant, inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto Me.”  Yes!  Get these two groups together; we’ll make a trench midway.  More Gospels and prayer-books, and friendly words for soldiers, and Christian mottoes!  I thank God for that.  The sight of them cheers me.  Perhaps it should not, but it does.  They knew, at least, of the Father’s forgiving love, and in their better moments must have thought thereof, otherwise these books would not be there at such a time; and though it does not do to presume too much thereon, who can set a limit to God’s mercy?  Who can say what passed in those closing moments, while the life-blood was ebbing away?  Often in the field I think of Scott’s dying soldier—­

        “Between the saddle and the ground,
        He mercy sought and mercy found.”

Oh, here’s an officer I’ve been expecting to find.  I knew he was missing, for I especially asked.  He had a presentiment amounting to a preintimation of his coming end.  In vain I argued with him.  He calmly gave me his last messages.  I’ve known several such.  “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”  Thank God, when he said “the hour of my departure’s come,” he was able to add, “I hear the voice that calls me home” and “is the traveller sad,” he asked, “when his face is turned homeward?”

’Who’s that you’ve got next?  Oh, I know him well.  We rejoiced together.  Come here, all of you, and look on his face.  I’m not to preach, boys—­we have other work to do—­but I wish you to lay his case to heart.  Some of you know him.  You know the stand he took at one of our meetings at the Modder River station, and what proof he afterwards gave of the sincerity of his profession.  Look at his face.  What a sweet, peaceful expression—­what a contrast to his surroundings!  Death swift and sudden, in the horrid din of battle stript of all its terrors.  As earth’s light faded he must have got a glimpse of the glory beyond, for it’s reflected in his face.  That’s what Christ can do, and came to do, for a man.

’Sergeant, get some of the handiest of the men to break up these empty ammunition-boxes and construct a rude cross for the trench.  It’s the most appropriate “memorial.”  It signifies self-sacrifice, and did they not, “obedient unto death,” give their lives for others; it indicates the cheering hope in which we lay them to rest.  By-and-by, we will erect something more permanent, and place a fence around, for ’tis holy ground, consecrated by tearful prayer and by the very fact that the remains of brave men mingle there.  Scotland to-day is poorer in men, but richer in heroes?

        “Saviour, in Thy gracious keeping,
        Leave we now our loved ones sleeping."’