Tom Pollard's mind was suddenly brought back to mundane things. It was now nearly one o'clock in the morning, and the night was chilly; a breeze having sprung up, the clouds had rolled away.

He distinctly heard a shout, and as far as he could make out it came from the German trenches, which were not far away.

"Holloa!"

"Holloa!" said Tom, "what is it?" He thought one of the other men on patrol duty had spoken to him.

"You belong to the Lancashires, don't you?"

"Of course I do," replied Tom; "what of that?" He was able to locate the voice now, and knew it came from a German trench.

"I have got something to tell you," and the words were followed by a laugh.

Whoever it was spoke in perfectly good English, although with a German accent.

"I reckon it'll be lies," was Tom's reply.

By this time another sentry, hearing Tom's voice, had rushed up to him.

"What is it? Who goes there?" he called out.

"Listen," whispered Tom, "it's one of the Bosches speaking to me. What is it?" he asked aloud.

"Only this," and the German laughed as he spoke: "you Lancashires are going to attack us at six o'clock to-morrow morning, eleven hundred strong, and we're ready for you. That's all," and again the German laughed.

"What does he mean?" said Tom to the man who stood by his side. "I know nothing about any attack. Do you?"

"I knows there's something on foot," replied the other, "but what it is
I don't know."

"Do you think we ought to tell one of the officers?"

"Nay, it's not worth the trouble," was the reply; "besides, it's only a bit of bluff."

Two hours later the English trenches were full of movement; evidently, as the other sentry had told Tom, something was on foot. Orders were given in low, tense tones, and although it wanted some time to daylight, preparations were evidently being made for an attack.

The words which the German had spoken weighed heavily on Tom's mind. Of course he was only a private, but might not the news he had received mean something? The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the German who spoke to him told the truth. Tom had no knowledge, and no warning, that an attack was to be made, and yet, within two hours from the time the German had spoken to him, preparations were being made for an attack. He knew, too, that his battalion was eleven hundred strong, having been reinforced only two days before. Seeing a young officer, he determined to speak to him and tell him what he had heard.

"It is very funny," said the subaltern, "I can't understand it a bit; but it's too late now, we must go through with it." All the same the subaltern found his way to his Colonel.

Precisely at six o'clock that morning the attack was made. From what Tom learnt afterwards, it had been conceived and prepared for in secret. None but those in high command had any knowledge whatever of it. But evidently the enemy knew. As the German soldier who had warned Tom said, "they were ready for them," and when the attack was made they were met by a storm of bullets. Indeed the whole adventure would have been disastrous had not the subaltern to whom Tom had spoken reported the conversation to a superior officer, who had hurriedly given orders for a number of the Black Watch to be brought up. As it was, although our loss of life was heavy, we did not have to yield any ground.

When the affair came to an end the Colonel of Tom's battalion sent for him.

"Now, my man," said the Colonel, "tell me exactly what you heard."

Tom told his story straightforwardly. It was little he had to say, and although the Colonel cross-questioned him very closely he was not able to shake him.

"This is very strange," said the Colonel to the Major when Tom had gone; "no one breathed a word about our plans, and as you know I laid everything before the General at the Divisional Headquarters. They were good plans too, and if the Germans had not got hold of them we should have made a big haul. What is the meaning of it?"

The Major shook his head.

"It was the biggest thing we had planned for months," went on the Colonel, "and I can't tell you how sick I am. We had everything in our favour too. There must be some treachery somewhere!"

"Where can the treachery be?" asked the Major. "You know what the Staff General said. It was to be kept absolutely quiet; the men were to know nothing about it until an hour before the time, and all the junior officers were to be kept in darkness. You know how careful the General is too."

"But the fact is there, man!" cried the Colonel, "we have the evidence of this lad, who could not possibly have been mistaken. He seemed an intelligent lad too; you saw how closely I cross-questioned him. Who is he?"

"I will send for his sergeant," was the Major's reply.

A few minutes later Sergeant Ashworth appeared on the scene. It was the sergeant to whom Tom had spoken when he first came to Ypres.

"Tell me what you know of Private Pollard," said the Colonel.

Sergeant Ashworth spoke freely about Tom.

"A smart lad, sir," he said, "intelligent, and well-behaved. I spoke to him about whether he would like his lance-corporal's stripe, but he didn't seem to want it. He would make a very good non-commissioned officer, sir."

"He seems a lad of some education," replied the Colonel.

"Yes, sir, a lot of those Lancashire lads are very well educated; they are quick and sensible too, and Pollard is one of the best of them. My opinion of him is that he is utterly trustworthy and intelligent."

"Now then, Blundell," and the Colonel turned to the Major, "what do you think?"

"Of course we must report it to Headquarters at once," replied the
Major, "but for the life of me I can't see through it."

The incident as far as the men were concerned was simply regarded as an affair which had missed fire. How, they didn't know. But there it was; a number of their comrades had been killed, and many more had been wounded. Still it was what they had come to the Front for. Many of their attacks had failed, and no one seemed to know why.

As may be imagined, Tom thought a great deal about it. He knew by the Colonel's questions, and by the tone of his voice, that the affair was regarded as serious. Tom, although not brilliant, had a good deal of common sense. He was able to put two and two together, and his Lancashire gumption led him to see further than many gave him credit for. He kept his own counsel, but he had become alert to the finger-tips.

Altogether that night was the most wonderful in Tom's history. In a way he could not understand, it formed an epoch in his life; it affected him in many ways. From that time he felt the reality of God. It was not an impression which came to him for a moment and then passed away, it was something which became permanent. God was a personal Power ever present with him. He was not simply some great Eternal Abstraction, but He was a great loving Father, revealed through Jesus Christ His Son. All the teaching he had received in the Sunday School, all the addresses he had heard at the Y.M.C.A. huts, came back to him. He formulated no theories, he tried to shape no creeds, but there seemed to be a Spiritual Deposit in his life to which he had hitherto been a stranger. He was a child of the Great Eternal Father, and Jesus Christ had told him what that Father was like. He said nothing about it to any one, it was not something to talk about. To Tom it was very real, and in a vital sense the knowledge made him a new man; a new life pulsated through his being. What it was he could not tell, did not even care. But it was there. Indeed he had a greater love for his life than ever, but he was no longer afraid.

It was not until two days later that Tom received news that Alec McPhail was among the wounded and had been removed to a hospital some little distance from Ypres, on the road leading to Cassel. He had seen but little of McPhail since he had come to France, as the Scotchman's battalion of the Black Watch occupied the trench some three miles from where the Lancashires were situated. They had met occasionally near Ypres, but had had little to say to each other. When Tom heard he was wounded, however, he determined to go and see him.

"He got it bad," said a friend of McPhail's; "they told me at the dressing station that he was in no fit condition to be removed, but they had to do it."

"You don't mean to say he's going to die!" said Tom.

"Nay, I don't think it's so bad as that," replied the other, "but he's got it bad."

When Tom arrived at the little town where the hospital was situated he immediately asked for permission to see the wounded man.

The nurse shook her head. "I doubt if you can," she replied.

"Is he very bad?" asked Tom.

The nurse nodded. "Very bad indeed," she replied; "he was wounded the other morning when the attack was made. We seem to have lost a number of men."

"Yes," said Tom, "I was there and I heard that the Black Watch were called up."

For a few seconds there was a silence between them, while Tom scanned the nurse's face closely.

"Do you mean to say he's going to die?" asked Tom, and his voice trembled a little.

The nurse nodded. "I am afraid so," she said. "He's too ill to see any one, and I doubt if he would know you."

"I am sure he would like to see me," said Tom pleadingly; "you see we were pals in Lancashire, and we saw a goodish bit of each other while we were in the camp in Surrey. I would like to see him if I could, I would really."

"Well, I shall have to speak to the doctor," was the nurse's reply.
"Will you wait here? I won't be long before I'm back."

A curious feeling came into Tom's heart. He did not know very much about McPhail, but he recalled the conversations that they had had in Lancashire, and he vividly remembered the night before they had started for the Front. McPhail had been very much wrought upon then. Tom had watched his face while they sat together in the Y.M.C.A. hut when the speaker was telling them about the deep needs of their lives. McPhail's face had become set and stern, although his lips quivered. Afterwards when they had gone to the canteen the Scotchman had uttered words which Tom never forgot.

He wondered now if McPhail had meant what he said, wondered too if he
had realised the same experiences which he, Tom, had passed through.
It seemed awful that this tall, stalwart Scotchman was going to die.
Why should men be killed in this way? Why should that lonely
Scotchwoman, McPhail's mother, have to suffer because of German sins?

The nurse came back to him. "He wants to see you," she said, "and the doctor says he may. He's been asking for you."

"Asking for me?" queried Tom.

"Yes, I didn't know anything about it. He's been telling another nurse that he wanted to see you. Pollard is your name, isn't it?"

A few seconds later Tom was admitted into the room where a number of men lay. McPhail was in a corner of the room partially hidden from the rest. The Scotchman gave Tom a smile of recognition as he came up to him.

"I felt sure ye'd come," he whispered. "They told me I couldna get at ye, but I had a feeling that I should see ye before I died."

Tom hesitated a second before replying.

"It may not be as bad as that," he said, "lots of chaps who have looked worse than you have got better."

"Nay," said McPhail, "I'm pipped, I have got to go. I'm not in any pain, though," he added quickly, "the doctor saw to that, but it willna be long afore I'm gone. Tom, I would like ye to write a letter to my mither. As I told you, she's a godly woman, and I've grieved her sair."

"I will do anything you ask me, McPhail," was Tom's reply. "Ay, but don't give up; you may get well yet, and have another smack at the Germans."

"Nay," replied the other, "I have done my bit. I would like to live a bit longer, but there, it's a' for the best. I'm not afraid, Tom; do you remember that night before we came out here, when we left the canteen together?"

"Ay, I remember."

"I settled it that night," said the Scotchman. "You remember me tellin' ye that I was always a thinking sort o' laddie? Weel, when I got away by mysel' that night I made up my mind, and I just accepted the way o' salvation, which my mither explained to me when I were a wee laddie. And it worked, Tom! It worked! I laughed at releegion when I was wi' you in Lancashire; but man, there's nothing else that stands by a man. Ay, and it works, it does. I want ye to write to my mither and tell her this. Tell her that I gave my life to the Lord on the night before I left England, that I have not touched a drap of drink since then, and that I died with the love of God in my heart. Will you tell her, Tom?"

"Ay," said Tom, "I will."

"Write down her address, will ye?"

Tom's hand trembled and the tears coursed down his face as he wrote the address of the woman who lived away in the Highlands of Scotland.

"It will comfort her," said McPhail when this was done. "It will make her feel that her teaching and her example were not in vain."

"Ay, but you must not die, you must not die," sobbed Tom.

"Dinna talk like that, lad," said the Scotchman. "I have been thinking it all oot sin' I have been here, and it's richt. It's a'richt. Without shedding of blood there is no remission of sin, and you can't purge away iniquity without paying the price: I am a part of the price, Tom. The Son of God died that others might live. That's not only a fact, it is a principle. Thousands of us are dying that others may live. Christ died that He might give life and liberty to the world, and in a way that is what we are doing. I can't richtly explain it, it's too deep for me; but I see glimpses of the truth. Tom, have you learnt the secret yourself?"

"I think I have," replied Tom. "On the night of the attack I was on sentry duty, and while I was alone I—I prayed. I could not say it in words like, they wouldn't come, but I am sure I got the grip of it, and I feel as though God spoke to me."

"That's it, lad, that's it!" said the dying man eagerly. "Tom, do ye think ye could pray now?"

By this time the room had become very silent. The men who had been talking freely were evidently listening to that which I have tried to describe, but the two lads were not conscious of the presence of others.

"I don't know as I can pray in words," said Tom, "somehow prayer seems too big to put into words. I just think of God and remember the love of Jesus Christ. But happen I can sing if you can bear it."

"Ay, lad, sing a hymn," said the Scotchman. Tom knelt by the dying man's bed and closed his eyes. For some time nothing would come to him; his mind seemed a blank. Then he found himself singing the hymn he had often sung as a boy.

Jesu, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy Bosom fly;
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high;
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide,
O receive my soul at last.

"Ay, that's it, that's it," said the Scotchman, "it's a hymn I dinna ken, but it goes to the heart of things. Man, can ye recite to me the twenty-third Psalm?"

"Nay," replied Tom, "I forget which it is."

"That's because you were born and reared in a godless country," replied the Scotchman. "No Scottish lad ever forgets the twenty-third Psalm, especially those who canna thole the paraphrases. 'The Lord is my Shepherd,' surely ye ken that, Tom?"

"Ay," replied Tom eagerly, "I know that."

Then the two lads recited the psalm together:

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside still waters.

"He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His Name's sake.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me."

"Stop there!" said the Scotchman. "That's eno'. It's a' there, Tom; that's why I'm not afraid now. I'm in the valley of the shadow of death, but I dinna fear: the Lord is wi' me, and He's gotten hold of my hand."

"You must go now," said the nurse, coming up, "the doctor says you must not stay any longer."

"Good-bye," said the Scotchman, with a smile, "it's a' richt; you'll tell my mither, won't you?"

"Ay, I will," said Tom.

"And—and Tom," said the Scotchman almost eagerly, "although I shall be dead, I shall be near you, and mebbe—— Ay, but we shall meet in a better world, Tom. It's a' richt."

As Tom passed through the room where the sick and wounded men lay, he noticed that they looked towards him longingly, wonderingly. The atmosphere of the place seemed charged with something sacred. At that moment Tom knew the meaning of the word Sacrament.

The next day the Scotchman died. The nurse was with him to the very last, and just before he breathed his last breath he lifted his eyes to her with a smile.

"It's a' richt, nurse," he said, "what my mither taught me was true down to the very foundations."

"Ay, it was grand, it was grand!" said Tom Pollard when he heard the news. "It doesn't seem like death at all, it was just victory, victory!"

After that Tom did his work with a new light in his eyes. It seemed as though his visit to the Scotchman had removed the last remaining cloud which had hung in the sky of his faith.