the silent
evidences of some tragedy at sea, or riding convalescent horses that
needed exercise, flying along the sands to see some special sight,
such as the carcass of a leviathan wrecked by butting into
mine-fields.

Close to us was a large Canadian Unit. They were changing their
location, and for three months had been in the sorry company of those
who have no work to do. The matron, however, told me that she found
plenty to occupy her time--in such a beehive of officers, with
seventy-five nurses to look after.

When at the close of the period for which I had volunteered I had to
decide whether to sign on again, my whole inclination was to stay just
another term; but as my commandant, Colonel David Cheever, informed me
that he and a number of the busier men felt that duty called them
home, and that there were plenty of volunteers to take our places, my
judgment convinced me that I was more needed in Labrador.

I shall not say much of the Y.M.C.A. They need no encomium of mine,
but I am prepared to stand by them to the last ditch. They were doing,
not talking, and were wise enough to use even those agents whom they
knew to be imperfect, as God Himself does when He uses us. The folly
of judging for all cases by one standard is common and human, but it
is not God's way. This conviction was brought home to me in a very odd
manner. I had gone to lecture at an English Y.M.C.A. hut at the
invitation of the efficient director, who knew me only for a "medical
missionary." On my arrival he most hospitably took me to the cupboard
which he called "his rooms." It was a raw, cold night, and among other
efforts to show his gratitude for my help, to my amazement he offered
me "a drop of Scotch." Astonishment so outran good-breeding that I
unwittingly let him perceive it. "I am not a regular 'Y' man, Major,"
he explained. "I'm an Australian, and was living on my little pile
when the war began. They turned me down each place I volunteered on
account of my age. But I was crazy to do my bit, and I offered to work
with the Y.M.C.A. as a stopgap. The War Office has commandeered so
many of their men that they had to take me to 'carry on.' I'm afraid
I'm a poor apology, but I'm doing my best."

The freedom from convention lent another peculiar charm to the life in
France. The mess sergeant of a headquarters where I was dining one
night, close behind the lines, presented the colonel with a
beautifully illustrated monograph on a certain