I would have been destitute indeed then.  It was as if I must fix in my mind the way he had been wont to look, and recall to my ears every tone of his voice, every trick of his speech.  There was something left of him that I must keep, I knew, even then, at all costs, if I was to be able to bear his loss at all.

There was a vision of him before my eyes.  My bonnie Highland laddie, brave and strong in his kilt and the uniform of his country, going out to his death with a smile on his face.  And there was another vision that came up now, unbidden.  It was a vision of him lying stark and cold upon the battlefield, the mud on his uniform.  And when I saw that vision I was like a man gone mad and possessed of devils who had stolen away his faculties.  I cursed war as I saw that vision, and the men who caused war.  And when I thought of the Germans who had killed my boy a terrible and savage hatred swept me, and I longed to go out there and kill with my bare hands until I had avenged him or they had killed me too.

But then I was a little softened.  I thought of his mother back in our wee hoose at Dunoon.  And the thought of her, bereft even as I was, sorrowing, even as I was, and lost in her frightful loneliness, was pitiful, so that I had but the one desire and wish—­to go to her, and join my tears with hers, that we who were left alone to bear our grief might bear it together and give one to the other such comfort as there might be in life for us.  And so I fell upon my knees and prayed, there in my lonely room in the hotel.  I prayed to God that he might give us both, John’s mother and myself, strength to bear the blow that had been dealt us and to endure the sacrifice that He and our country had demanded of us.

My friends came to me.  They came rushing to me.  Never did man have better friends, and kindlier friends than mine proved themselves to me on that day of sorrow.  They did all that good men and women could do.  But there was no help for me in the ministration of friends.  I was beyond the power of human words to comfort or solace.  I was glad of their kindness, and the memory of it now is a precious one, and one I would not be without.  But at such a time I could not gain from them what they were eager to give me.  I could only bow my head and pray for strength.

That night, that New Year’s night that I shall never forget, no matter how long God may let me live, I went north.  I took train from London to Glasgow, and the next day I came to our wee hoose—­a sad, lonely wee hoose it had become now!—­on the Clyde at Dunoon, and was with John’s mother.  It was the place for me.  It was there that I wanted to be, and it was with her, who must hereafter be all the world to me.  And I was eager to be with her, too, who had given John to me.  Sore as my grief was, stricken as I was, I could comfort her as no one else could hope to do, and she could do as much for me.  We belonged together.

I can scarce remember, even for myself, what happened there at Dunoon.  I cannot tell you what I said or what I did, or what words and what thoughts passed between John’s mother and myself.  But there are some things that I do know and that I will tell you.