earned the right to speak out.  I have made a heavy investment in the cause of Humanity and I am going to look after it.  The only thing that makes it possible to give up Alex is the hope that Alex’s death may help to make war impossible and so save other boys.  But unless we do something his death will not help a bit; for this thing has always been—­and that is the intolerable thought to me.  I am willing to give my boy to die for others if I am sure that the others are going to be saved, but I am not willing that he should die in vain.  You see what I mean, don’t you?”

I told her that I did see, and that I believed that she had expressed the very thought that was in the mind of women everywhere.

“Well, then,” she said quickly, “why don’t you write it?  We will forget this when it is all over and we will go back to our old pursuits and there will be nothing—­I mean, no record of how we felt.  Anyway, we will die and a new generation will take our places.  Why don’t you write it while your heart is hot?”

“But,” I said, “perhaps what I should write would not truly represent what the women are thinking.  They have diverse thoughts, and how can I hope to speak for them?”

“Write what you feel,” she said sternly.  “These are fundamental things.  Ideas are epidemic—­they go like the measles.  If you are thinking a certain thing, you may be sure you have no monopoly of it; many others are thinking it too.  That is my greatest comfort at this time.  Write down what you feel, even if it is not what you think you ought to feel.  Write it down for all of us!”

And that is how it happened.  There in the Municipal Hall in the small town of Ripston, as we sat round the stove that cold November day, with the sleet sifting against the windows, I got my commission from these women, whom I had not seen until that day, to tell what we think and feel, to tell how it looks to us, who are the mothers of soldiers, and to whom even now the letter may be on its way with its curt inscription across the corner.  I got my commission there to tell fearlessly and hopefully the story of the Next of Kin.

It will be written in many ways, by many people, for the brand of this war is not only on our foreheads, but deep in our hearts, and it will be reflected in all that our people write for many years to come.  The trouble is that most of us feel too much to write well; for it is hard to write of the things which lie so heavy on our hearts; but the picture is not all dark—­no picture can be.  If it is all dark, it ceases to be a picture and becomes a blot.  Belgium has its tradition of deathless glory, its imperishable memories of gallant bravery which lighten its darkness and make it shine like noonday.  The one unlightened tragedy of the world to-day is Germany.

I thought of these things that night when I was being entertained at the Southern woman’s hospitable home.