A MAN OF GOD Barry was standing beside his father's grave, in a little plot in the Boulogne cemetery set apart for British officers.

They had, one by one, gone away and left him until, alone, he stood looking down on the simple wooden cross on which were recorded the name, age, and unit of the soldier with the date of his death, and underneath the simple legend, eloquent of heroic sacrifice, "Died of wounds received in action." Throughout the simple, beautiful burial service he had not been acutely conscious of grief.

Even now he wondered that he could shed no tears.
Rather did an exultant emotion fill his soul as he looked around upon the little British plot, with its rows of crosses, and he was chiefly conscious of a solemn, tender pride that he was permitted to share that glorious offering which his Empire was making for the saving of the world.

But, in this moment, as he stood there alone close to his father's grave, and surrounded by those examples of high courage and devotion, he became aware of a mighty change wrought in him during these last three days.

He had experienced a veritable emancipation of soul.