Tell him! Tell him! I never could."
The little V. A. D. came softly and stood looking from a distance. Then
coming to the bedside, she laid her hand upon the head and then the
heart of the dead man. Then she drew back, and beckoning to an orderly,
they placed a screen about the cot. She let her eyes rest for a moment
or two upon the kneeling boy, then went softly away.
Death was to her an all too familiar thing. She had often seen it
unmoved, but to-night, as she walked away, the brown eyes could not hold
their tears.
CHAPTER XII
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.
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