He replied, “No, sir. I’ve wept over this little crucifix—is that
prayer?”
“That’s prayer of the best sort,” I said. “Every tear contained volumes
you could not utter, and God read every word. He knows all about it.”
I pulled out a little khaki Testament. “Would you like it?” I said.
“Would you read it?”
He answered, “Yes,” and signed the decision in the cover.
When I shook hands with him there was a light in his eyes. Have you ever
seen the light break over the cliff-tops of some high mountain peak?
Have you ever watched the sun kiss a landscape into beauty? Have you
ever seen the earth dance with gladness as the sun bathed it with
radiance and warmth? Oh, it’s a great sight; but there’s no sight like
seeing the light from Calvary kiss a human face as it fills the heart
with the assurance of Divine forgiveness.
* * * * *
One hundred and fifty-two thousand cups of tea and coffee are given away
monthly at one railway-station. I once happened to be at a
railway-station on the main lines of communication. There are women
working there, women of position and means, working at their own
expense. I have seen rough fellows go up to a British woman behind a
counter—the first time they have seen a British woman for months—and I
have heard them say, “Madam, will you shake hands with me?” I saw an
Australian do that. He got her hand—and his was like a leg of mutton—and
he thought of his mother and his home-folk. He forgot his tea. It was a
benediction to have that woman there.
Well, on this occasion two of these ladies said to me, “Gipsy, we’re
having a relief train pass through to-morrow, and one comes through up
and one comes through down.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
The train that was coming from the front we could hear before we could
see it. And it wasn’t the engine that we heard, because that came so
slowly, but I could hear the boys singing as they came round the curve,
“Blighty, Blighty is the place for me.”
We served them with tea and coffee, French bread a yard long, and
candles and matches and “Woodbines,” and then we got that crowd
off—still singing “Blighty.”
They had been gone about five minutes when the other train _from_
Blighty came in. We couldn’t hear them singing. They were quiet and
subdued. We served them with coffee and tea, candles, bootlaces, and
smokes, and then, as they had some time, they started having a wash—the
first since they left Blighty. The footboard of the train was the
washstand, the shaving-table, and the dressing-table. But they didn’t
sing.
I saw in a corner of that little canteen a pile of postcards, and I
said, “Who says a postcard for wife or mother?”
Somebody asked, “Who’s going to see them posted?”