The lad turned upon her a shining look.  “I know, mother.  I didn’t hear, of course, but I knew, when I saw him, it was for me, too.  And I’m ready.  I see my way now.  Mother, get Dad.”

Hugh, the elder, still sleeping in his room at the far side of the house, opened heavy eyes.  Then he sprang up.  “Evelyn!  What is it?”

“Oh, Hugh—­come!  Oh, Hugh!  Brock—­Brock—­” She could not say the words; there was no need.  Brock’s father caught her hands.  In bare words then she told him.

“My dear,” urged the man, “you’ve had a vivid dream.  That’s all.  You were thinking about the boys; you were only half awake; Mavourneen began to cry—­the dog means Brock.  It was easy—­” his voice faltered—­“to—­to believe the rest.”

“Hugh, I know, dear.  Brock came to tell me.  He said he would.”  Later, that day, when a telegram arrived from the War Office there was no new shock, no added certainty to her assurance.  She went on:  “Hughie saw him.  And Mavourneen.  But I can’t argue.  We still have a boy, Hugh, and he needs us—­he’s waiting.  Oh, my dear, Hughie is going to France!”

“Thank God!” spoke Hugh’s father.

Hand tight in hand like young lovers the two came across to the room where their boy waited, tense.  “Father—­Dad—­you’ll give me back your respect, won’t you?” The strong young hand held out was shaking.  “Because I’m going, Dad.  But you have to know that I was—­a coward.”

“No, Hugh.”

“Yes.  And Dad, I’m afraid—­now.  But I’ve got the hang of things, and nothing could keep me.  Will you, do you despise me—­now—­that I still hate it—­if—­if I go just the same?”

The big young chap shook so that his mother, his tall mother, put her arms about him to steady him.  He clutched her hand hard and repeated, through quivering lips, “Would you despise me still, Dad?”

For a moment the father could not answer.  Then difficult tears of manhood and maturity forced their way from his eyes and unheeded rolled down his cheeks.  With a step he put his arms about the boy as if the boy were a child, and the boy threw his about his father’s shoulders.

For a long second the two tall men stood so.  The woman, standing apart, through the shipwreck of her earthly life was aware only of happiness safe where sorrow and loss could not touch it.  What was separation, death itself, when love stronger than death held people together as it held Hugh and her boys and herself?  Then the older Hugh stood away, still clutching the lad’s hand, smiling through unashamed tears.

“Hugh,” he said, “in all America there’s not a man prouder of his son than I am of you.  There’s not a braver soldier in our armies than the soldier who’s to take my name into France.”  He stopped and steadied himself; he went on:  “It would have broken my heart, boy, if you had failed—­failed America.  And your mother—­and Brock and me.  Failed your own honor.  It would have meant for us shame and would have bowed our heads; it would have meant for you disaster.  Don’t fear for your courage, Hugh; the Lord won’t forsake the man who carries the Lord’s colors.”