There they grope and there they falter, sweeping plain and crested dome,
Holy Ordered, sturdy cruisers, bringing light where’er they roam,
Heartened far across the Marches by the Church of God at Home.”
“There they lead and there they battle, there the ranks are thinned and wan,
But they lift aloft the Banner, and the few still stagger on;
On, with faces white and weary, on, the tide of night to stem;
On, for precious soul-wrought jewels for the Master’s diadem;
Church of Christ, across the Marches, lift your pleading prayers for them.”
Slowly Rolfe folded the paper when he had finished, and thrust it into an inside pocket. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Hugo reached out his big right hand.
“Put it there, young man,” he said. “I congratulate you for those words. You have struck the right note, eh, sergeant, don’t you think so?”
“I do,” was the quiet reply. “Tom, I believe you will make a poet yet if you keep at it.”
“He is a poet now,” Marion declared. “I enjoyed that poem very much, and you will let me have a copy of it, will you not, Mr. Rolfe?”
“Why, yes, Miss Brisbane, I shall be delighted to do so. But suppose you wait until I publish my first book of poems. I shall dedicate it to you if you will let me, and I shall include this poem in the volume.”
That night Marion and the sergeant sat long together after the others had gone to rest. There were many things they talked about in low voices, and wonderful were the plans they formed for the future. They were
