"The War has powerfully changed the 'psychological atmosphere,' and the thoughts of a great multitude are turned towards the spiritual aspect of existence. In this vast but connected universe we are not the only self-conscious beings. Life is working here as elsewhere, for some sublime purpose. The day is at hand when we shall turn from the child-like amusements and excitements of physical science to the unimaginable adventures of super-physical discovery; and in that day we shall not only flash our messages to the stars, but hold communion with our dead."

—HAROLD BEGBIE.

THE MESSENGER

The Parish Church stood high perched in the Glen, and through its clear windows we could see the white, winding road that was our one link with the great world beyond the mountains. Perhaps our eyes strayed from the preacher's face more than was seemly, and in spring time we had this excuse, that the fresh green of the larches against the dark rocks made a picture fairer to the eye than our plain old Church and its high pulpit.

But that Sunday in the spring of the Great War the minister had us all, even the young and thoughtless, in the hollow of his hand. It was the 18th chapter of Second Samuel that he had read earlier in the Service, and now he was opening its meaning to us with deep-felt realisation of those great dramatic episodes.

We saw the young man Absalom die. We saw Cushi start to bear his tidings to the king. We watched Ahimaaz swift on his track. We marked the king's anxious waiting, and the fixed gaze of the watchman on the city walls. We strained in the long strain of the runners. We fainted with the fears of a father's heart. We saw Ahimaaz outrun his rival yet falter in his message. And we heard the blow upon David's heart of Cushi's stroke. "And the king said unto Cushi, Is the young man Absalom safe? And Cushi answered, The enemies of my lord the king, and all that rise against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man is."

There were tears in the women's eyes as the preacher called us to see the stricken and weeping king climbing with weary step to the chamber over the gate. And in a solemn hush we heard the cry of his anguish "—O my son Absalom! my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee. O Absalom, my son, my son!"

We had anxious fathers and mothers and wives and sisters in the Church that day, and it was as though our own sorrows were all gathered up into the old, unhappy, far-off things of which the preacher spoke. I had a dear one to be concerned for, but I was thinking now of some one else. For Widow McDonald was there, and the days had grown into weeks since last she had tidings of John—and he was her only boy.

Suddenly she rose and slipped out. I followed her, for there was an odd, silent friendship between us, and I thought that I might help. To my surprise she did not turn homewards, but down the Glen, and there I saw that some one was waiting for her by the pine wood. "I saw your sign, sir," she said, "and I guessed you brought news of John. Oh, sir, tell me quick, is he safe?"

"He is safe," the stranger answered. I could not see His face, but He seemed weary and far-travelled. It was His voice that made me wonder. For as He said "safe," it was as a new word to me, so full of healing and of peace that it laid to rest every fear of my unquiet heart.

"And will he be home soon?" It was the mother who was speaking now.

"I have taken the dear lad home," answered the stranger. "His room has been long prepared for him in my Father's house. He has fought a good fight. He was wounded, but his wounds are healed. He was weary, but he has found rest." And so speaking He looked at us, and as the mother clasped my hand I knew that the truth was breaking on her too.

"He is dead," she sobbed.

"No," said the stranger, "he is alive, for he has laid down his life that he might take it again."

There was silence then, and the stranger turned to leave us. Even in her grief the mourner was mindful of what was due to Him who had taken upon Himself the burden of sorrowful tidings.

"Come back with us, and break bread, and rest a while," she said, "for, sir, you seem spent, and it is out of a kind heart that you have spoken."

"I may not tarry," He made answer, "for there are many who need me, and I must go to them, but for thy comfort thou shalt first know who hath brought thee tidings of thy son's passage through death to life."

I dare not try to tell what happened then under the shadow of the pines, but somehow we knew our eyes looked into the face of the soldiers' The Comrade in White; and we knew Him. And then His hand was lifted in blessing, and we heard this word, that is now as the music of our daily lives: "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

We walked in a strange, calm silence to the widow's cottage, and then as we parted she turned to me a face filled with heavenly peace—"My dear boy lives," she said.