No men are braver, and very few render more important service, than the motor cycle scouts. They are, many of them, students from Oxford and Cambridge. Their intelligence, knowledge of languages, and general resource are a great asset to the British Army. Their work, however, is perilous in the extreme. One of these had lost his way and had actually ridden through two villages occupied by Germans when, at Douai, a bullet found its way to his heart. When the Germans retired from the village, the villagers carried him tenderly into a cottage, straightened the fine young limbs, and covered him with a clean white sheet. They placed a bunch of newly gathered flowers upon his heart. He was carried to his last long rest by the old men of the village--the young men had all gone to the war--and as they passed through the village, the women came from the houses and laid flowers upon the bier. Slowly they climbed the hill, with many a halt to rest the ancient bearers, while ahead boomed the heavy guns, and at their feet they could see the infantry advancing to action. At last the hill-top was reached, crowned by the little church, with "God's acre" all around. They laid him in the hastily dug grave, the peasants, with uncovered heads, listening reverently to the reading of the burial service in a language they could not understand. Before the service was finished shrapnel shells were bursting over the hilltop, and the peasants quietly moved to the partial shelter of the wall, still with uncovered heads. When the final "Amen" was said, the chaplain stood for a moment gazing down into the grave and thinking of all the brilliant possibilities wrapped up in that splendid young fellow "gone to his death," when one of the old men, forgetting his fear of the guns, came forward to the graveside, and cast earth with unconscious dignity upon the body lying there. "You are a brave man," he said, "and our friend. You have given your life for our country. We thank you. May you sleep well in the earth of beautiful France!" And the old men under the shelter of the wall added "Amen." Thus they go, the grand old field-marshal 'neath the weight of years, the brilliant general in the full tide of useful service, and the young man, his life-work scarce begun! Thus they go and the flower of our nation's manhood with them. If that were the end, if death ended all, Britain could hardly lift up her head again. But we cheer ourselves as we remember that what we call the end is only the beginning. Goethe draws a picture in _Faust_ of his hero gazing at the setting sun. As he watches it slowly setting in the west, he longs to follow it in its course-- To drink its everlasting light, The day before him and behind the night. But they may and do. There is always-- The day before _them_ and behind the night.