and--and sent into some terrible job--shell-fire--dirt--smells--dead men
and horses--filth--torture--mother, I might run. I don't feel sure. I
can't trust Hugh Langdon--he might run. Anyhow"--the lad sprang to his
feet and stood before her--"anyhow--why am _I_ bound to get into this? I
didn't start it. My Government didn't. And I've everything, _everything_
before me here. I didn't tell you, but that editor said--he said I'd be
one of the great writers of the time. And I love it, I love that job. I
can do it. I can be useful, and successful, and an honor to you--and
happy, oh, so happy! If only I may do as Arnold said, be one of
America's big writers! I've everything to gain here; I've everything to
lose there." He stopped and stood before her like a flame.

And from the woman's mouth came words which she had not thought, as if
other than herself spoke them. "'What shall it profit a man,'" she
spoke, "'if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'"

At that the boy plunged on his knees in collapse and sobbed miserably.
"Mother, mother! Don't be merciless."

"Merciless! My own laddie!" There seemed no words possible as she
stroked the blond head with shaking hand. "Hughie," she spoke when his
sobs quieted. "Hughie, it's not how you feel; it's what you do. I
believe thousands and thousands of boys in this unwarlike country have
gone--are going--through suffering like yours."

Hugh lifted wet eyes. "Do you think so, Mummy?"

"Indeed I do. Indeed I do. And I pray that the women who love them
are--faithful. For I know, I _know_ that if a woman lets her men, if a
mother let her sons fail their country now, those sons will never