before he reached his objective.

"I, too, have orders from a Higher Authority," said the Roman Catholic
priest, and he dashed out into the roadway. He fell, dead, close by the
body of his Protestant brother. They had not reached the wounded, but
Heaven is witness that their death was the death of men.

Hand in hand with the chaplains at the front is the Y.M.C.A. It is doing a
marvelous work among the troops. The Y.M.C.A. huts are scattered all over
the fighting front. Here you will find the padre with his coat off engaged
in the real "shirt-sleeve" religion of the trenches. Here there are all
possible comforts, even little luxuries for the boys. Here are
concerts,--the best and best-known artists come out and give their services
to cheer up Tommy. Here the padres will hold five or six services in an
evening for the benefit of the five or six relays of men who can attend.
Here are checker-boards, chess sets, cards, games of all sorts. Here is a
miniature departmental store where footballs, mouth organs, pins, needles,
buttons, cotton, everything can be bought.

"What's the place wid the red triangle?" asked the Irish soldier, lately
joined up and only out, from a Scotch-Canadian who stood near by.

"Yon? D'ye mean to say ye dinna know the meaning o' thon? Why, mon, yon's
the place whaur ye get a packet o' fags, a bar o' chocolate, a soft drink
and salvation for twenty-five cents."

Yes; we get all that in the Y.M.C.A. huts where the padre toils and the
layman sweats day and night for the well-being of the soldier men. In some
of the huts it is actually possible to get a bath. It is always possible to
get dry. 'Twas Black Jack Vowel, good friend Jack, who wrote over to tell