From very far away there came a rumbling thunder, heavy, insistent,
continuous, punctuated with louder crashes.

"It is the guns," muttered the soldier, shivering. "It is the guns
around Verdun! Those damned Boches!"

He turned back into the thicket and dropped among the ferns beside the
spring. Stretching himself with a gesture of abandon, he pillowed his
face on his crossed arms to sleep.

A rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to his feet quickly. It
was a priest, clad in a dusty cassock, his long black beard streaked
with gray. He came slowly treading up beside the trickling rivulet,
carrying a bag on a stick over his shoulder.

"Good morning, my son," he said. "You have chosen a pleasant spot to
rest."

The soldier, startled, but not forgetting his manners learned from
boyhood, stood up and lifted his hand to take off his cap. It was
already lying on the ground. "Good morning, Father," he answered. "I
did not choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It is pleasant
enough, for I am very tired and have need of sleep."

"No doubt," said the priest. "I can see that you look weary, and I beg
you to pardon me if I have interrupted your repose. But why do you say
you came here 'by chance'? If you are a good Christian you know that
nothing is by chance. All is ordered and designed by Providence."

"So they told me in church long ago," said the soldier, coldly; "but