“Shall I put a bit at the bottom for a postscript?” I asked. “But first of
all, let us pray.”

We got on our knees, and I said, “You begin.”

“I’m not used to it,” he replied.

“Begin; never mind how. Did you ever pray?”

“Yes,” he said; “I prayed as a child.”

“Start with that, then—He loves cradle faith.”

It took him some time, but presently he began with his mother’s prayer,
“Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” When he got to the third line there was
a big lump in his throat and one in mine, and then he gave me a dig with
his elbow and said, “You’ll have to finish”—and I finished.

I put my postscript to that letter. “God has saved him,” I wrote. “Believe
him. Write and tell him you forgive him.”

And when that mother got that she knew that giving out note-paper was
religion.

* * * * *

I was in a cemetery just behind the lines, walking among the graves of our
dear lads who have fallen, and weeping for those at home who weep over
graves that they will never see. There I found an old soldier who had been
to the woods and had cut a big bundle of box trimmings. He was setting a