That October afternoon had now dropped eight months back, and still the house seemed lost without Brock, especially on this June twentieth, the day that was his and hers, the day when there had always been “doings” second only to Christmas at Lindow.  But she gathered up her courage like a woman.  Hugh the elder was coming tonight from his dollar-a-year work in Washington, her man who had moved heaven and earth to get into active service, and who, when finally refused because of his forty-nine years and a defective eye, had left his great business as if it were a joke, and had put his whole time, and strength, and experience, and fortune at the service of the Government—­as plenty of other American men were doing.  Hugh was coming in time for her birthday dinner, and young Hugh was with them—­Her heart shrank as if a sharp thing touched it.  How would it be when they rose to drink Brock’s health?  She knew pretty well what her cousin, the judge, would say: 

“The soldier in France!  God bring him home well and glorious!”

How would it be for her other boy then, the boy who was not in France?  Unphrased, a thought flashed, “I hope, I do hope Hughie will be very lame tonight.”

The little dog slipped from her and barked in remonstrance as she threw out her hands and stood up.  Old Mavourneen pulled herself to her feet, too, a huge, beautiful beast, and the woman stooped and put her arm lovingly about the furry neck.  “Mavourneen, you know a lot.  You know our Brock’s away.”  At the name the big dog whined and looked up anxious, inquiring.  “And you know—­do you know, dear dog, that Hughie ought to go?  Do you?  Mavourneen, it’s like the prayer-book says, ’The burden of it is intolerable.’  I can’t bear to lose him, and I can’t, O God!  I can’t bear to keep him.”  She straightened.  “As you say, Mavourneen, it’s time to dress for dinner.”

The birthday party went better than one could have hoped.  Nobody broke down at Brock’s name; everybody exulted in the splendid episode of his heroism, months back, which had won him the war cross.  The letter from Jim Colledge and his own birthday letter, garrulous and gay, were read.  Brock had known well that the day would be hard to get through and had made that letter out of brutal cheerfulness.  Yet every one felt his longing to be at the celebration, missed for the first time in his life, pulsing through the words.  Young Hugh read it and made it sweet with a lovely devotion to and pride in his brother.  A heart of stone could not have resisted Hugh that night.  And then the party was over, and the woman and her man, seeing each other seldom now, talked over things for an hour.  After, through her open door, she saw a bar of light under the door of the den, Brock’s and Hugh’s den.

“Hughie,” she spoke, and on the instant the dark panel flashed into light.

“Come in, Mummy, I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

“Waiting, my lamb?”