I never recall those really worth while times without being reminded of a certain Lieutenant whose name I do not feel at present free to reveal. The attending circumstances were so deeply pathetic, and his confidence in me of a nature so sacred, I will but narrate the details without divulging his identity.

Handsome, generous, brave, highly competent in military art, he was as skillful in getting action from his giant gun as he was masterful in evoking music from his violin! If there was anything his platoon boys admired more, even than himself, it was the music of his ever generous, ever delighting violin. Deep in some dugout we would gather around him. Tenderly and fondly he would take the instrument from the battered box, patting it like a young mother her baby's cheek.

Beginning with some light popular air in which all would vocally join, he would soon glide like a spirit of melody to the unprofaned height of the music masters. Bach was his favorite. And when, with the mute, to soften the waves from unfriendly ears, he would interpret some symphony of the soul, we would forget our grim surroundings and dream we "dwelt in marble halls."

He knew my passionate fondness for music and took delight in pleasing me. What pictures he could paint on the canvas of my fancy! Under the spell of his music I would drop anchor in the harbor of the fairest dream. Now, it would be a landscape the brush of his bow would paint—a midsummer day with sheep gently grazing on some hillside: again, it would be a forest, with treetops cowering before an on-rushing storm.

One evening he was playing with the mute on "Humoresque." His big brown eyes, that were not the least attractive feature of his handsome face, looked steadily into mine across the bridge of his violin.

"What is the picture tonight, Chaplain?"

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"I see a coast," I replied; "it is a fair summer day, with waves of all blue and silver, dancing in the breeze. A yacht is just off shore; the sail, a creamy bit of color; at the tiller a chap, handsome as yourself, and at his side a girl"—here he stopped playing and looking intently at me exclaimed:

"Why, that's the very thing I was thinking of myself!"

Laying aside the violin he drew from his kit a bundle of letters tied with ribbon. Delightedly, radiantly, he showed me her picture—yes, her pictures, for surely he had twenty of them. Then he narrated "the sweetest story ever told"; how wonderful she was, how tenderly he loved her, how they had sacredly promised to marry on his return, and planned to seek their young fortunes in South America.

The days following were filled with big thrilling events. The ebb and flow of battle called into action all that was best and noblest in the boys, and my Lieutenant served his Battery and wrought deeds of valor to a degree all excelling and inspiring. I knew the secret of it all, it was the thought of her, his promised wife, and of the bliss awaiting a gallant soldier's return.

It was just one week later the letter came. Few received mail that day; he was one who did. My attention was first called to him by the sound of a moan that seemed to come from a heart utterly broken. He stood leaning against a caisson staring at the letter, his face deathly white. Instinctively I realized it all. It was from her, and its message was as some stroke of lightning from a cloudless sky. Mutely he came to me, pressed the letter in my hand, and turned away.

A glance through its lines told me the worst; that while she admired his courage and unselfishness more than any man in the world, and always would, still, as she did not, could never, love him as she felt a wife should love her husband, would he now release her and give up their engagement!

Knowing him as I did, noble, unselfish, and devotedly, tenderly loving her with all his soul, most deeply did I pity him. It was the supreme hour and crisis of his life. If there were ever a time when he needed her love to sustain him, when day and night he grappled with death and fought with all his soul, as only the patriot can fight, it was now.

It was the beginning of the end. Sub-consciously I sensed impending tragedy, and was depressed beyond expression. Not indeed that he became morose, ugly or unsoldierly. On the contrary, never was he more attentive to Battery duties or considerate toward his men. Bravely would he laugh and jest and try to appear happy; but I knew it was all merely heroic endeavor, and that his heart was utterly broken. If he gave expression to his loss at all it was through his violin. It was all in a minor strain, and its notes were of the soul of one

"Who treads alone,
Some banquet hall deserted:
Whose lights are fled, and garlands dead,
All, all save he departed."

It was the afternoon of ten days later. In an orchard on a hillside his Battery had just come into position. By some alert enemy-observing plane the movement had evidently been noted, for it was not seven minutes later that a high explosive shell came screaming over the hill, directly hitting his gun, instantly killing gunner No. 1, and mortally wounding himself.

Ten minutes later I reached his side. He was still conscious, had received First Aid, but was sinking rapidly. "I am not afraid to die, Chaplain. It's my turn I guess. There is a letter here in my blouse pocket. I wrote it to her the other night. Read it, will you please, and if it is all right, post it for me when I am gone."

Blinded with my tears I carefully took the letter from his pocket. It was wet with his heart's blood. I do not now recall its every word, but in substance, it released her. "My Duchess" was the endearing title at the top of the page. It declared his deep, abiding love for her: a love so unselfish and complete as not wanting to ever, either directly or indirectly, mar her happiness. In life and death her memory would continue to be the one supreme inspiration of his life. As she requested, he had burned the letters, retaining but one, stained with a rose she had once given him.

"Oh my boy! I am proud of you," I cried, when I finished reading. "If it is all right, Chaplain, please post it when I am gone."

The deathly pallor of his face warned me the end was near. Though not directly of my faith, he had often remarked his preference for my ministrations; and with all my soul I helped him make Acts of Faith, Hope, Charity, and perfect Contrition. Gently his eyes closed, his head fell forward on my breast, and his brave sweet spirit passed to its Maker.

Kneeling around, with tears seaming their ashen battle-stained faces, were his boys. Tenderly they helped me carry his poor torn body to the shelter of a neighboring ravine. On the hillside we buried him, marking his grave with the Sign of Him who shall remember the Brave, the Pure, the Good.

I posted the letter, as he requested, enclosing it all, as it was blood-stained, in another envelope. I have forgiven, as he would have me do, the inconsiderate action of the girl who brought such sorrow to the supreme hour of his sacrifice. Some day, when the wounds of cruel war are healed, I may forget. And yet, reviewing it all in the light of the supernatural and the greater reward awaiting him beyond the stars, may we not believe that an all-wise, ever-merciful Father permitted this crowning sorrow of his young life that it might be but opportunity, humbly and prayerfully endured, of a soul-cleansing nature, and add luster to his reward of the Greater Love through eternal years!