When I was through I felt a pressure of his hand, and he said:  “Now I feel stronger.  He is helping me bear my burden.  Thank you for coming, and”—­then he paused for words “and—­thank you for bringing Him.”

Yes, there is suffering in France, suffering among our soldiers, too, but suffering that is glorified by courage.

X

SOLDIER SILHOUETTES

One night down near the front lines as we drove the great truck slowly over the icy roads, on the top of a little knoll stood a lone sentinel against a background of snow, and that is a silhouette that I shall never forget.

Another night there was a beautiful afterglow, and being a lover of the beautiful as well as a driver of a truck, I was lost in the wonder of the crimson flush against the western hills.

“Makes me homesick,” said the big man beside me, whose home is in the West.  “Looks for all the world like one of our Arizona afterglows.”

“It is beautiful,” I replied, and then we were both lost in silent appreciation of the scene before us, when suddenly we were startled witless.

“Halt!” rang out through the semi-darkness.  “Who goes there?”

“Y.  M. C. A.” we shot back as quick as lightning, for we had learned that it doesn’t pay to waste time in answering a sentinel’s challenge down within sound of the German guns.

“Pass on, friends,” was the grinning reply.  That rascal of a sentry had caught us unawares, lost in the afterglow, and he was tickled over having startled us into astonishment.

But even though he did give us a scare, I am sure that the picture of him standing there in the middle of that French road, with his gun raised against the afterglow, will be one of the outstanding silhouettes of the memories of France.

Then there was the old Scotch dominie down at Chateau-Thierry, with the marines.  The boys called him “Doc,” and loved him, for he had been with them for eight months.

One night, in the midst of the hottest fighting in June, the old secretary thought he would go out in the night and see how the boys were getting along.  He walked cautiously along the edge of the woods when suddenly the word “Halt!” shot out in low but distinct tones.

“Who goes there?”

“A friend,” the secretary replied.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Doc?  Gee, I’m glad to see you!  This is a darned weird place to-night.  Every time the wind blows I think it’s a Boche.”

There was a slight noise out in No Man’s Land.  “What’s that, Doc, a Boche?”

“I think not.”

“You can’t tell, Doc; they’re everywhere.  If I’ve seen one, I’ve seen ten thousand to-night on this watch.”

That old gray-haired secretary will never forget that night when he walked among the men in the trenches with his little gifts and his word of cheer, that memorable night before the Americans made themselves heroes forever in the Bois du Belleau.  He will never forget the sound of that boy sentry’s voice when he said, “Gee, Doc, I’m glad it’s you”; nor will he forget the looks of the boy as he stood there in the darkness, the guardian of America’s hopes and homes, nor will he forget the firm, warm clasp of the lad’s hands as he walked away to greet others of his comrades.