men and horses—­filth—­torture—­mother, I might run.  I don’t feel sure.  I can’t trust Hugh Langdon—­he might run.  Anyhow”—­the lad sprang to his feet and stood before her—­“anyhow—­why am I bound to get into this?  I didn’t start it.  My Government didn’t.  And I’ve everything, everything before me here.  I didn’t tell you, but that editor said—­he said I’d be one of the great writers of the time.  And I love it, I love that job.  I can do it.  I can be useful, and successful, and an honor to you—­and happy, oh, so happy!  If only I may do as Arnold said, be one of America’s big writers!  I’ve everything to gain here; I’ve everything to lose there.”  He stopped and stood before her like a flame.

And from the woman’s mouth came words which she had not thought, as if other than herself spoke them. “‘What shall it profit a man,’” she spoke, “‘if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’”

At that the boy plunged on his knees in collapse and sobbed miserably.  “Mother, mother!  Don’t be merciless.”

“Merciless!  My own laddie!” There seemed no words possible as she stroked the blond head with shaking hand.  “Hughie,” she spoke when his sobs quieted.  “Hughie, it’s not how you feel; it’s what you do.  I believe thousands and thousands of boys in this unwarlike country have gone—­are going—­through suffering like yours.”

Hugh lifted wet eyes.  “Do you think so, Mummy?”

“Indeed I do.  Indeed I do.  And I pray that the women who love them are—­faithful.  For I know, I know that if a woman lets her men, if a mother let her sons fail their country now, those sons will never forgive her.  It’s your honor I’m holding to, Hughie, against human instinct.  After this war, those to be pitied won’t be the sonless mothers or the crippled soldiers—­it will be the men of fighting age who have not fought.  Even if they could not, even at the best, they will spend the rest of their lives explaining why.”

Hugh sat on the sofa now, close to her, and his head dropped on her shoulder.  “Mummy, that’s some comfort, that dope about other fellows taking it as I do.  I felt lonely.  I thought I was the only coward in America.  Dad’s condemning me; he can’t speak to me naturally.  I felt as if”—­his voice faltered—­“as if I couldn’t stand it if you hated me, too.”

The woman laughed a little.  “Hughie, you know well that not anything to be imagined could stop my loving you.”

He went on, breathing heavily but calmed.  “You think that even if I am a blamed fool, if I went anyhow—­that I’d rank as a decent white man?  In your eyes—­Dad’s—­my own?”

“I know it, Hughie.  It’s what you do, not how you feel doing it.”

“If Brock would hold my hand!” The eyes of the two met with a dim smile and a memory of the childhood so near, so utterly gone.  “I’d like Dad to respect me again,” the boy spoke in a wistful, uncertain voice.  “It’s darned wretched to have your father despise you.”  He looked at her then.  “Mummy, you’re tired out; your face is gray.  I’m a beast to keep you up.  Go to bed, dear.”