“May God spare you now and always,” said Rivers.  The habitual melancholy he dreaded took possession of his face as he rose, adding, “Come, Tom, we must go.”

“And I,” said Blake.

“Happy Christmas to you all—­and a happier New Year than 1864.”  They left John to the letters Josiah placed on the table.

The night was now clear and the stars brilliant, as Penhallow saw Blake mount his horse and Rivers and McGregor walk away to find the hospital ambulance.  “There at least is peace,” said John, as he watched the Pleiades and the North Star, symbol of unfailing duty.  “Well, it is as good as a sermon, and as it belongs there on eternal guard so do I belong here for my little day; but I trust the spring will bring us peace, for—­oh, my God!—­I want it—­and Westways.”  He went in to his hut and stirred the fire into roaring companionship.

Meanwhile Rivers, walking with McGregor, said, “Did the figure of that doomed wretch haunt you as we talked to John?”

“It did indeed!  I had never before been ordered to certify to a death like that, and I hated it even before I bent down and knew who it was.”

“How far was he accountable, Tom?”

“Don’t ask me riddles like that, Mr. Rivers.  It is a subject I have often thought about.  It turns up in many forms—­most terribly in the cases of the sins of the fathers being loaded on the sons.  How far is a man accountable who inherits a family tendency to insanity?  Should he marry?  If he falls in love, what ought he to do or not do?  It is a pretty grim proposition, Mr. Rivers.”

“He should not marry,” replied the clergyman, and both moved on in silent thought.

“Oh, here is our ambulance,” said Tom.  They got in, Rivers reflecting how war, parent of good and evil, had made of this rough country-bred lad a dutiful, thoughtful man.

Presently McGregor said, “When we were talking of our unpleasant duties, I meant to tell you that one of them is to tattoo a D—­for deserter—­on the breast of some poor homesick fellow.  After that his head is shaved; then the men laugh as he is drummed out of the lines—­and it’s disgusting.”

“I agree with you,” said Rivers.

John lighted a fresh pipe and sat down by the fire to get some Christmas pleasure from the home letter in Leila’s large and clear script.  His aunt had ceased to write to him, and had left to her niece this task, insisting that it should be punctually fulfilled.  This time the letter was brief.

“Of course, my dear John, you know that I am under orders to write to you once a week.”—­“Is that explanatory?” thought the reader.—­The letter dealt with the town and mills, the sad condition of Colonel Penhallow, his aunt’s messages and her advice to John in regard to health.  The horses came in for the largest share of a page.  And why did he not write more about himself?  She did not suppose that even winter war consisted only in