forgive her. It's your honor I'm holding to, Hughie, against human
instinct. After this war, those to be pitied won't be the sonless
mothers or the crippled soldiers--it will be the men of fighting age who
have not fought. Even if they could not, even at the best, they will
spend the rest of their lives explaining why."

Hugh sat on the sofa now, close to her, and his head dropped on her
shoulder. "Mummy, that's some comfort, that dope about other fellows
taking it as I do. I felt lonely. I thought I was the only coward in
America. Dad's condemning me; he can't speak to me naturally. I felt as
if"--his voice faltered--"as if I couldn't stand it if you hated me,
too."

The woman laughed a little. "Hughie, you know well that not anything to
be imagined could stop my loving you."

He went on, breathing heavily but calmed. "You think that even if I am a
blamed fool, if I went anyhow--that I'd rank as a decent white man? In
your eyes--Dad's--my own?"

"I know it, Hughie. It's what you do, not how you feel doing it."

"If Brock would hold my hand!" The eyes of the two met with a dim smile
and a memory of the childhood so near, so utterly gone. "I'd like Dad to
respect me again," the boy spoke in a wistful, uncertain voice. "It's
darned wretched to have your father despise you." He looked at her
then. "Mummy, you're tired out; your face is gray. I'm a beast to keep
you up. Go to bed, dear."

He kissed her, and with his arm around her waist led her through the