"That plain tale is the parable of many an awakening. It is the parable of the soldiers' need and vision and faith. They have seen something, and that something which is responsible for the question they so frequently ask, 'What is it like at home? Are the people at home praying? Are they praying for us doing our bit out here, or are they still going on the old way?'... "The other day I was acting chaplain at the funeral of a 'Jock,' aged twenty-eight, who leaves a widow and three little children amongst that great company at home weeping for their beloved dead. "The night before he died I said, 'Good-night, boy, I'll be in to see you early to-morrow morning.' "The poor fellow knew he might not last till morning; and as I turned away he tried to raise himself and salute, and then he said: "'Good-night, sir, and God bless you! and if I'm gone, sir, remember I'm all right--all right. Send my love to Janet and the bairns, and tell them I'll be waiting for them.' "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. These men are our heroes and God's own children." Yes, that is the universal testimony--"brave in suffering as they have been brave in service." Grand lads these, and we shall never forget what they have done for us. My difficulty in this chapter is to select out of the mass of material to hand stories which will best illustrate the work which is being done. Much will necessarily have to be put upon one side. I will turn next to the Rev. Richard Hall. For many years he had been at the head of the Welcome Soldiers' and Sailors' Home at Chatham, and in this position had done most effective service for the men. The Chatham Wesleyan Central Hall is also his creation, and in it he had led hundreds of sailors and soldiers to Christ. No truer friend of the soldier and no more efficient worker is to be found with the men. He, too, tells us something of hospital work at the fighting base. I quote from the _Methodist Times_. "One night," he says, "as I was going my rounds, my attention was directed to a man who was in delirium. I knelt down to hear what he was saying. His mind was dwelling on his boyish days. He was repeating-- 'Hark, hark, hark, while infant voices sing Loud hosannas to our King.' And then he uttered a name--it was the name of 'Peter Thompson.' This man had evidently when a boy attended our East End Mission, and had known Peter Thompson. I buried him in the little cemetery close by. "It was All Saints' Day, a great festival in France, the time when friends visit the graves of their departed loved ones, and place thereon flowers. It was a beautiful morning, scores of people were there, and by invitation of the Mayor, as many officers from the hospital as could be spared were present also. The funeral service was combined with the celebration. I conducted the funeral first. At the close the Mayor made the speech, a copy of which I enclose.