rare success to our troops; his name is a household word among them,
they love him as they love few, and he loves them one and all. And now
he too is ordered South. He is fifty-six years old, and has done no
campaigning heretofore. It is, therefore, no light task he has before
him, and though he has many advantages and is known to so many, yet he
is quite aware he must rough it with the rest, and is prepared to
undergo all hardships with his men.

It is a raw, biting morning, and the piercing wind makes the khaki
uniforms that flit here and there look altogether unseasonable. On the
other side of the station is Rev. Father Ryan, the Roman Catholic
chaplain, in khaki uniform and helmet, looking a soldier every inch of
him,--a good man, too, and a gentleman, as we Aldershot folks know well.
But on this platform what a crowd there is! Men and women, old and
young, soldiers and civilians, have all come to say good-bye to one man,
and he moves in and out among the people saying a kindly word here and
giving a handshake there. There are not many for South Africa by this
train. The men left hours ago, and only a few officers who had no need
to travel with their men are going down. A young lad here, the son of a
Christian man, is going out hoping to get an appointment in some South
African volunteer regiment, and his comrades of the Fire Brigade are
here to say 'good-bye.' But the rest of us are all crowding round our
best-loved padre to say God-speed.

It is a scene that will live with us for many years. See, they are
running along the platform as the train steams out. 494 they shout, and
bravely and with smiling face he calls out in return 494, and off they
go, he to the work of his life, and we to the more humdrum but perhaps
not less necessary work of the hour.