“In the name of my country, in this its dark hour, let me give you welcome,” and once more he shook them each by the hand. “We have still half an hour before worship,” he continued. “Pray do me the honour of entering my manse.”
They followed him up the shrubbery-flanked gravel walk to the door.
“Enter,” he said, going before them into the manse. “Jean! Jean!” he called.
“Yes, dear,” came a voice like the sound of a silver bell, and from another room issued a lady with a face of rare and delicate loveliness. Her soft, clinging black gown, with a touch of white at her throat, served to emphasise the sweet purity of her face, but cast over it a shade of sadness at once poignant and tender.
“My dear, this is Mrs. Robertson,” he said simply; “these friends, Americans and Canadians, are from the war.”
At that word she came to greet them, her face illumined by a smile inexpressibly sweet, but inexpressibly sad. “You are welcome, oh, very welcome,” she said, in a soft Scotch voice. “Come in and rest for a few moments.”
“Our young friend here, Captain Dunbar, is chaplain of a distinguished Canadian regiment.”
“They are all distinguished,” said the lady.
“A chaplain?” said the minister. “My dear sir, we should be grateful for a message for our people from the front—”
“Oh, yes, if you would,” added his wife.