miracle seems more wonderful to me than those ten lads and their
ill-written prayers. And, remember, that liturgical service lasted
six months, and never a break in the Tuesday meeting. What a grand
thing a boy's heart is, when you capture its loyalty and its
affection!

It was a black day when the news came. The local Territorials had
advanced too far on the wing of a great offensive, and had been
almost annihilated. The few survivors had dug themselves in, and
held on till that bitter Tuesday faded into darkness and night. When
relief came, one man was left alive. He was wounded in four places,
but he was still loading and firing, and he wept when they picked
him up and carried him away for first aid. That solitary hero,
absolutely the only survivor of our local regiment, was Lieutenant
Roger Fenton, V.C.

When his wounds were healed, and the King had done the needful bit
of decoration, we got him home. We did not make the fuss they did in
some places. Our disaster was too awful, and the pathos of that
solitary survivor too piercing. But some of us were at the station,
and there in the front row were the ten men of prayer. Poor Roger
quite broke down when he saw them. And he could find no words to
thank them. But he wrung their hands till they winced with the pain
of that iron grip.

That night I got a chance of a talk with him alone. He was too
modest to tell me anything of his own great exploit. But there was
evidently something he wanted to say, and it was as if he did not
know how to begin. At last he said, "I have a story to tell that not
one in fifty would listen to. That Tuesday evening when I was left