.

God's name didn't some of you wise ones see it coming, and dig in to resist it years ago? We didn't know. How should wethat's not our job. We only follow a good lead. We're always there, I tell you, red hot and ready for anything big. We're straining on the collar, and always ready, and then suddenly some of the big ones go crazy, and slip the leash, and in an instant we're at one another's throats, killing each other for a big idea-killing each other! God, what a damned waste! There it is, I tell you, all the red hot youth and idealism of the world, always there a flame in the heart-always to be called on! But they never call on it for anything but war! Oh, can't you give us something better than that to die for?"

"What is its moral equivalent?" Webb asked uncertainly, stunned by the indictment from the heart of embittered youth. "Lord, I don't know," the other retorted angrily. "That isn't for us to know. It's for you writing chaps to find out. We only follow a good lead, I tell you. Only," he whispered savagely, "think twice before you incite us again with the intoxication of words. Oh, you think the war's over and the world-what's left of it-safe now-I tell you it's never safe! Something will happen again, and in a second, before you realize it, you'll have us at one another's throats once more. Oh, I'm safe enough now!" he glanced at his empty sleeve, "but there are always more of us! Great God, you could do anything with us— move mountains, turn the world over, make a new heaven and a new earth—but all you ever do is to set us to murdering one another. Oh, for God's sake for Christ's sake, preach us something better than war! We're so easy to be had-the flutter of a flag, drums beating, fine words-and we're off. Oh, I was young once; don't I know?”

"How old are you now?" Webb asked.

"Twenty-five,” the man returned bitterly.

Webb was silent for a space. "I always thought of you as the man from God's Country," he said at length.

The other stared at him. "You didn't mean America?" he questioned.

"No; the land of youth, of faith, of glorious sacrifice."

"Well, I don't belong to that country any longer."

Webb looked at the lined face and the hair that was gray now, but had been bright gold. "Well," he said at length, “ "anyway it's a man from there they're burying today."

"Oh, God, yes!" the other cried under his breath. "It must be! They couldn't fail to pick one of them—there were so many, they died in shoals everywhere."

Suddenly the lady who had been standing silent reached across Webb, and touched the new comer, lightly, with her transparent fingers.

"I am glad you are here today," she said softly, her blue eyes raised to his.

The American had not noticed her before, but now he turned upon her a startled, comprehensive glance.

"It is this lady's son that they are bringing home today," Webb explained gravely.

The other's face flushed darkly all over, and he pressed his lips tight together. "I understand," he got out at length, and slipping behind Webb, he wedged his way through the crowd, and came to stand by the lady on the other side. "I knew your son very well, Madam," he said. "It was a great privilege." He did not touch her, but bent down to her, very tender and reverent, his head uncovered.

I know it is only his friends around for a moment on all

"Yes," she answered, responding to his homage with a gentle graciousness, "I am sure you did. who are here today." She looked the vast packed crowd of people. "He had very many friends," she said. "Many more than I knew. Indeed," she confessed piteously, looking confusion, "of all these friends of his you two are the only ones I seem to know."

The man spoke to her quickly, reassuringly. "But you do know us," he said, "so it is all right, and all these other people are his friends, and of course yours as well. They do not actually recognize you, perhaps, but they know you must be somewhere here, and all their hearts are with you.'

Her face cleared gratefully. "Yes, of course," she said. "I had forgotten."

After that she began, in her gentle murmur, to tell him all over as she had told Webb about her son; about his youth and

most especially about the beautiful fresh sound of water running in the spring. She had a confused way of calling it the resurrection sound.

The morning had worn on; the streets were a sea of waiting people. The mists were gone now, and even the air and the sunshine seemed to partake of the utter stillness. But suddenly the silence was cut by the boom of a minute gun. Webb felt the little woman's body stiffen against him, and as the gun went on, minute by minute, a slow deep pulse of expectancy, he was conscious of her hands upon his arm in an agony of waiting. Then at last, far away, the air began to weave itself to rhythm. The Life Guards in front of them, with one solemn gesture, rippling along the whole line, reversed arms, and bent their heads over the stocks of their guns; and now one began to hear the drums rolling out the Dead March in the distance, and the skirl of the pipes. Far down the street men were taking off their hats, and here and there a handkerchief fluttered. The lady began to shake. "I mustn't cry," she whispered desperately.

Webb could not steady her. He did not know what he might do when those dark suffocating drums, beating out the sorrow of the world, came opposite. Again it was the other who reassured her.

"You will not cry," he whispered. "You will be too proud for tears. Your son has saved England, and all of England is here to pay him tribute."

She nodded swiftly back at that, her small face quivering, and her body bracing itself.

So they waited, the two Americans standing beside her in an utter reverence. The procession was very close now. First came the mounted policemen, then four regiments of Foot Guards, and now the pipes and drums-every drum encased in black-were passing with their terrible, heart-throbbing music. Followed a little pause of empty space, and then the gun carriage with its burden. On the casket lay the simple belt and helmet of a private soldier, and on either side of the carriage marched twelve pall bearers, Admirals, Generals, and Sir Hugh Trenchard, the first Air Marshal; representatives of all of England's high command from the land, the sea, and the sky.

With a quick gesture the lady had slipped out of her cloak, letting it fall darkly about her feet, standing forth in her blue dress, the sun upon her hair and bare arms, and the white chrysanthemums that she bore held close against her breast. As the cloak had dropped from her shoulders, so, almost, her body appeared as well to have fallen away leaving only her spirit there. She stood without a quiver, all her being gathered up in one intense look, fastened upon the flag covered casket. As he passed she spoke softly to her son. "Christopher-Kit! My dear, my dear," she whispered, all of England's pride and grief gathered in her one person.

It passed, and with the rolling drums, the pipers, and the solemn marching men, went on to the cenotaph. Here a figure came forth to meet it bearing a wreath, and someone in the crowd whispered, "The King.

The flowers had fallen from the lady's fingers, her body was still beside Webb, but she herself was there with her son at the foot of the cenotaph. Suddenly she spoke, "It is the King's son who is dead," she said, her own loss swept away in the revelation of the nation's grief. But in a moment she spoke again out of complete conviction. "No! The Son of Man-it is the Son of Man who is dead for all the sins of the world."

As she said the words a woman somewhere in the crowd screamed sharply and fell into deep sobbing.

The first strokes of the hour sounded from Big Ben. Every hand was raised in salute. The King pressed a button and the flags fell away from the cenotaph, leaving it stark and white to the gaze. Silence then, utter and complete. Silence over the waiting crowd, over all the city, and throughout the country. Silence, it seemed to Webb, over all the world, while the whole of humanity fastened the eyes of the heart upon that sacrificial altar whereon the spirit of youth had been offered for the sins of the nations.

THE WORLD MISSION OF CHRISTIAN

SCIENCE

BY FREDERICK DIXON

A FEW miles out of one of the great cities of the world is a little inn which carries on its signboard the name, "The World Turned Upside Down." The traveller who enters its doors must often wonder how it came by such a name, but the chances are that it is merely a reminiscence of a once popular tune, the very tune that the bands of Cornwallis's regiments played on the day they marched out of Yorktown to surrender to Washington. Tucked away in a London suburb, the little old inn must have seen the world careen many times as it has spun down the decades. But probably never before, not even in the time of Waterloo, has it turned so completely upside down as in this decade of Armageddon.

In such circumstances it is not unnatural that men everywhere should be asking, “In the restoration of the world is the Church playing its full part?" The question is an atom invidious when put, as it is put, to members of individual churches. And yet the query is one which it is not difficult to answer. Anyone who will stop to measure the aspirations of the churches against the frailties of the flesh will probably come to the conclusion that for men and women to act up to the full profession of their faith would be practically impossible, since even the man who raised up Eutychus, in the street at Troas, was driven to admit to the Romans, "The good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do." It was, indeed, the suspicion of "The Gentleman With a Duster" that the Church was failing in its moral leadership, that caused him to write his own famous volume, Painted Windows; and Professor Kirsopp Lake, in writing the foreword to the American edition of that book, insists that no one can afford to neglect this warning. The requirement of Christ Jesus to his followers in all ages, "Verily,