rs, such as few white men can
read. These are the Indian troops. There they lie, side by side--the
mute wastage of war, but a living testimony, even in their last
sleep, to the breadth and unity of the British Empire. The great,
machine-made Empire of Germany can show no such graves: when her
soldiers die, they sleep alone.

The Church of England service had come last of all. Late in the
afternoon a youthful and red-faced chaplain had arrived on a bicycle,
to find a party of officers and men lying in the shade of a broad
oak waiting for him. (They were a small party: naturally, the great
majority of the regiment are what the identity-discs call "Pres" or
"R.C.")

"Sorry to be late, sir," he said to the senior officer, saluting.
"This is my sixth sh--service to-day, and I have come seven miles for
it."

He mopped his brow cheerfully; and having produced innumerable
hymn-books from a saddle-bag and set his congregation in array, read
them the service, in a particularly pleasing and well-modulated voice.
After that he preached a modest and manly little sermon, containing
references which carried Bobby Little, for one, back across the
Channel to other scenes and other company. After the sermon came a
hymn, sung with great vigour. Tommy loves singing hymns--when he
happens to know and like the tune.

"I know you chaps like hymns," said the padre, when they had finished.
"Let's have another before you go. What do you want?"

A most unlikely-looking person suggested "Abide with Me." When it was
over, and the party, standing as rigid as their own rifles, had
sung "God Save the King," the preacher announced, awkwardly--almost
apologetically--

"If any of you would like to--er--communicate, I shall be very glad.
May not have another opportunity for some time, you know. I think over
there"--he indicated a quiet corner of the wood, not far from the
little cemetery--"would be a good place."

He pronounced the benediction, and then, after further recurrence to
his saddle-bag, retired to his improvised sanctuary. Here, with a
ration-box for altar, and strands of barbed wire for choir-stalls, he
made his simple preparations.

Half a dozen of the men, and all the officers, followed him. That was
just a week ago.

* * * * *

Captain Wagstaffe broke the silence at last.

"It's a rotten business, war," he said pensively--"when you come to
think of it. Hallo, there goes the first star-shell! Co