to cry--the dog means Brock. It was easy--" his voice faltered--"to--to
believe the rest."

"Hugh, I _know_, dear. Brock came to tell me. He said he would." Later,
that day, when a telegram arrived from the War Office there was no new
shock, no added certainty to her assurance. She went on: "Hughie saw
him. And Mavourneen. But I can't argue. We still have a boy, Hugh, and
he needs us--he's waiting. Oh, my dear, Hughie is going to France!"

"Thank God!" spoke Hugh's father.

Hand tight in hand like young lovers the two came across to the room
where their boy waited, tense. "Father--Dad--you'll give me back your
respect, won't you?" The strong young hand held out was shaking.
"Because I'm going, Dad. But you have to know that I was--a coward."

"_No_, Hugh."

"Yes. And Dad, I'm afraid--now. But I've got the hang of things, and
nothing could keep me. Will you, do you despise me--now--that I still
hate it--if--if I go just the same?"

The big young chap shook so that his mother, his tall mother, put her
arms about him to steady him. He clutched her hand hard and repeated,
through quivering lips, "Would you despise me still, Dad?"

For a moment the father could not answer. Then difficult tears of
manhood and maturity forced their way from his eyes and unheeded rolled
down his cheeks. With a step he put his arms about the boy as if the boy
were a child, and the boy threw his about his father's shoulders.