It was a deeply moving scene.
“Madam,” said Mr. Howland, wiping his eyes, “forgive me, but you mothers are the wonder of the war.”
“There are many of us in this glen, sir,” she replied. “We cannot give our lives, sir. We can only give what is dearer than our lives, our dear, dear sons, and, believe me, we don't grudge them.”
“Madam,” said Mr. Howland, “the whole world honours you and wonders at you.”
“Sir,” said Barry, obeying a quick impulse, “I cannot preach, but may I tell your people something about their boys and how splendid they are?”
“Thank you,” said the minister.
“Oh, would you?” cried his wife. “There are many there who feel only the loss and the sorrow. You can tell them something of its splendour.”
By this time in the eyes of all the visitors there were tears, but on the faces of the minister and his wife there was only the serene peace of those who within the sacred shrine of sacrifice have got a vision of its eternal glory.
“Barry,” said Paula, drawing him aside, “I love you for this, but do talk about something, or I shall surely cry. These people break my heart.”
“Oh, no,” said Barry, looking at them, “there are no tears there. They have been all the way through.”