"You are brave!" I said to him. "They all tell me that, the doctors
and nurses."

"They are so good to me." he said in low tones so that I had to bend to
hear them. "But my leg; they don't seem to be able to help me."

Then I told him as gently as I could that it was not his leg, that it
was his back, and that he would likely not get well. Then I tried to
tell him of the room in his Father's house that was ready for him when
he was ready to accept it, and of what a glorious welcome there was
there.

He reached out for my hand in the semi-darkness of that evening. I can
feel his hand-clasp yet. I didn't know what to say, but a phrase that
had lingered in my mind from an old story came to the rescue.

"Don't you want the Christ to help you bear your pain?" I asked him.

"That is just what I do want," he said simply. "That was why I was so
glad you came--an honest-to-goodness preacher," and he smiled again, so
bravely, in spite of his suffering, and in spite of the news that I had
just broken to him.

Then we prayed. I stood beside his bed holding his hand and praying.
The room was full of other wounded boys, but in the twilight I doubt if
a lad there knew what we were doing. I spoke low, just so he could
hear, and the Master knew what was in my heart without hearing.

When I was through I felt a pressure of his hand, and he said: "Now I