"But that wasna what we meant," complained Mrs. Thomson. "Oh! I whiles think I'm not a Christian at all now. I _cannot_ see why God allows this war. There's Mrs. Forsyth, a neighbour of ours--you wouldn't meet a more contented woman and that proud of her doctor son, Hugh. It was the biggest treat you could give her just to let her talk about him, and I must say he was a cliver, cliver young man. He did wonders at College, and he was gettin' such a fine West End practice when the war began; but nothing would serve but he would away out to France to give his services, and he's killed--_killed_!" Her voice rose in a wail of horror that so untoward a fate should have overtaken any friend of hers. "And oh! Mr. Seton, how am I to let Rubbert go? All his life I've taken such care of him, because he's not just that awfully strong; he was real sickly as a bairn and awful subject to croup. Many's the time I've left ma bed at nights and listened to his breathing. Papa used to get fair worried with me, I was that anxious-minded. I niver let the wind blow on him. And now...." "Poor body!" said Mr. Seton. "It's a sore job for the mothers." He turned to Mr. Thomson. "Perhaps we might have prayers together before I go?" Mr. Thomson brought the Bible, and sat down close beside his wife. Jessie and Robert and Alick sat together on the sofa, drawn very near by the thought of the parting on the morrow. Mr. Seton opened the Bible. "We shall sing the Twenty-third Psalm," he said. Sing? The Thomsons looked at their minister. Even so must the Hebrews have looked when asked to sing Zion's songs by the waters of Babylon. But James Seton, grown wise through a whole campaign of this world's life and death, knew the healing balm of dear familiar things, and as he read the words they dropped like oil on a wound: "The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want. He makes me down to lie In pastures green: He leadeth me The quiet waters by. My soul He doth restore again; And me to walk doth make Within the paths of righteousness Ev'n for His own name's sake. Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, Yet will I fear none ill: For Thou art with me; and Thy rod And staff me comfort still. * * * * * Goodness and mercy all my life Shall surely follow me; And in God's house for evermore My dwelling-place shall be." It is almost the first thing that a Scots child learns, that the Lord is his Shepherd, that he will not want, that goodness and mercy will follow him--even through death's dark vale. _Death's dark vale_, how trippingly we say it when we are children, fearing "none ill." Mrs. Thomson's hand sought her husband's.