“Now, sir,” said the A. D. C. S. to Barry, in his military tone, “I am organising a company of musicians who will go through our camps and help the boys as you have helped us to-day. I would like you to be one of them. What do you say?”
“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Barry hastily, laying the violin upon the piano and standing back from it, “don't make that an order, sir. I want to stay with my men.”
His face was quivering with deep emotion. The A. D. C. S. looked into the quivering face.
“All right, Dunbar,” he said, with a little laugh, and putting his hand on Barry's shoulder. “I guess you are all right.”
“Some boy! What?” said the American doctor. “Here I think you had better take your fiddle along,” handing Barry the violin. “It doesn't belong to any one in this bunch.”
The burst of laughter that followed, all out of proportion to the humour of the remark, revealed the tensity of the strain through which they had passed.
Through the little town of Etaples they drove together in almost complete silence, until they had emerged into the country, lying spread out about them in all the tender beauty of the soft spring evening. As the car moved through the sweet silence of the open fields, the V. A. D. said softly:
“Oh, Captain Dunbar, I—”
“My name is Barry,” he said gently.
A quick flush came into the beautiful face and a soft light to the brown eyes, as she answered: