Then he continued slowly, “On the Somme, a few hours before I was badly wounded”—he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little crucifix—“I picked up that little crucifix and I put it in my pack, and when I got to hospital I found that little crucifix on my table. One of the nurses or the orderlies had put it there, thinking I was a Catholic. But I know I’m not, sir. I am _nothing_. I have been looking at this little crucifix so often since I was wounded, and I look at it till my eyes fill with tears, because it reminds me of what He did for me—not this little bit of metal, but what it means.” I said, “Have you ever prayed?” He replied, “No, sir. I’ve wept over this little crucifix—is that prayer?” “That’s prayer of the best sort,” I said. “Every tear contained volumes you could not utter, and God read every word. He knows all about it.” I pulled out a little khaki Testament. “Would you like it?” I said. “Would you read it?” He answered, “Yes,” and signed the decision in the cover. When I shook hands with him there was a light in his eyes. Have you ever seen the light break over the cliff-tops of some high mountain peak? Have you ever watched the sun kiss a landscape into beauty? Have you ever seen the earth dance with gladness as the sun bathed it with radiance and warmth? Oh, it’s a great sight; but there’s no sight like seeing the light from Calvary kiss a human face as it fills the heart with the assurance of Divine forgiveness. * * * * * One hundred and fifty-two thousand cups of tea and coffee are given away monthly at one railway-station. I once happened to be at a railway-station on the main lines of communication. There are women working there, women of position and means, working at their own expense. I have seen rough fellows go up to a British woman behind a counter—the first time they have seen a British woman for months—and I have heard them say, “Madam, will you shake hands with me?” I saw an Australian do that. He got her hand—and his was like a leg of mutton—and he thought of his mother and his home-folk. He forgot his tea. It was a benediction to have that woman there. Well, on this occasion two of these ladies said to me, “Gipsy, we’re having a relief train pass through to-morrow, and one comes through up and one comes through down.” “I’ll be there,” I said. The train that was coming from the front we could hear before we could see it. And it wasn’t the engine that we heard, because that came so slowly, but I could hear the boys singing as they came round the curve, “Blighty, Blighty is the place for me.” We served them with tea and coffee, French bread a yard long, and candles and matches and “Woodbines,” and then we got that crowd off—still singing “Blighty.”