“France?”

“We sail for Bordeaux for ambulance service the twentieth, mother.  I was the fourth accepted with my qualifications—­driving my own car and—­and physical fitness.  I’m going to France, mother, among the first to do my bit.  I know a fellow got over there before we were in the war and worked himself into the air-fleet.  That’s what I want, mother, air service!  They’re giving us fellows credit for our senior year just the same.  Bob Vandaventer and Clarence Unger and some of the fellows like that are in the crowd.  Are you a dead-game sport, little mother, and not going to make a fuss—­”

“I—­don’t know.  What—­is—­it—­I—­”

“Your son at the front, mother, helping to make the world a safer place for democracy.  Does a little mother with something like that to bank on have time to be miserable over family rows?  You’re going to knit while I’m gone.  The busiest little mother a fellow ever had, doing her bit for her country!  There’s signs up all over the girls’ campus:  ’A million soldiers “out there” are needing wool jackets and chest-protectors.  How many will you take care of?’ You’re going to be the busiest little mother a fellow ever had.  You’re going to stop making a fuss over me and begin to make a fuss over your country.  We’re going into service, mother!”

“Don’t leave me, Edwin!  Baby darling, don’t leave me!  I’m alone!  I’m afraid.”

“There, there, little mother,” he said, patting at her and blinking, “I—­Why—­why, there’s men come back from every war, and plenty of them.  Good Lord! just because a fellow goes to the front, he—­”

“I got nothing left.  Everything I’ve worked for has slipped through my life like sand through a sieve.  My hands are empty.  I’ve lost your father on the success I slaved for.  I’m losing my boy on the fine ideas and college education I’ve slaved for.  I—­Don’t leave me, Edwin.  I’m afraid—­Don’t—­”

“Mother—­I—­Don’t be cut up about it.  I—­”

“Why should I give to this war?  I ain’t a fine woman with the fine ideas you learn at college.  I ask so little of life—­just some one who needs me, some one to do for.  I ’ain’t got any fine ideas about a son at war.  Why should I give to what they’re fighting for on the other side of the ocean?  Don’t ask me to give up my boy to what they’re fighting for in a country I’ve never seen—­my little boy I raised—­my all I’ve got—­my life!  No!  No!”

“It’s the women like you, mother—­with guts—­with grit—­that send their sons to war.”

“I ’ain’t got grit!”

“You’re going to have your hands so full, little mother, taking care of the Army and Navy, keeping their feet dry and their chests warm, that before you know it you’ll be down at the pier some fine day watching us fellows come home from victory.”

“No—­no—­no!”

“You’re going to coddle the whole fighting front, making ’em sweaters and aviation sets out of a whole ton of wool I’m going to lay in the house for you.  Time’s going to fly for my little mother.”