"So happy," said her husband, "that I have to go. Every time I came in and found you waiting for me with the kettle singing, when I went out in the morning and looked at the hills, when I walked in the garden and knew that every bush in it was dear to me--then I remembered that these things so dear were being bought with a price, and that the only decent thing for me to do was to go and help to pay that price." "But only as a chaplain, surely?" Andrew shook his head. "I'm too young and able-bodied for a chaplain. I'm only thirty-two, and though I'm not big I'm wiry." "The Archbishop of Canterbury says the clergy _shouldn't_ fight," Kirsty reminded him. Andrew took her arm and looked very tenderly at her as he answered, laughing, "Oh! Kirsty, since when did an Anglican bishop direct your conscience and mine?" They walked slowly towards the house. On the doorstep Kirsty turned. "Andrew," she said, "have you thought it all out? Have you thought what it may mean? Leaving the people here--perhaps they won't keep your place open for you, for no man knows how long the war'll last--leaving your comfortable home and your wife who--who loves you, and going away to a life of hardship and exposure, and in the end perhaps--death. Have you thought of this sacrifice you are making?" And her husband answered, "Yes, I have thought of all it may mean. I don't feel I am wrong leaving the church, because Mr. Smillie is willing to come back and look after the people in my absence. He will stay in the Manse and be company for you." Here poor Kirsty sniffed. "Oh! my dear, don't think I am going with a light heart. 'Stay at home, then,' you say. 'Better men than you are will stay at home.' I know they will, and I only wish I could stay with them, for the very thought of war makes me sick. But because it is such a wrench to go, makes me sure that I ought to go. Love and sacrifice--it's the way of the Cross, Kirsty. The 'young Prince of Glory' walked that way, and I, one of His humblest ministers, will find my way by His footprints." Kirsty said no more. Later, when Andrew was gone, her father came to Langhope and in no uncertain voice expressed his opinion of his son-in-law. That a man would leave a good down-sitting and go and be private soldier seemed to him nothing short of madness. "Andrew's a fool," he said, with great conviction. "Yes," said Kirsty, "Andrew's a fool--a fool for Christ's sake, and you and I can't even begin to understand what that means in the way of nobility and courage and sacrifice, because we were born crawling things. Andrew has wings, and my only hope is that they will be strong enough to lift me with him--for oh! I couldn't bear to be left behind." She ran from the room hurriedly, and left a very incensed gentleman standing on the hearth-rug.