By the banks of Lovely Creek, where it began, Claude Wheeler’s story still goes on.  To the two old women who work together in the farmhouse, the thought of him is always there, beyond everything else, at the farthest edge of consciousness, like the evening sun on the horizon.

Mrs. Wheeler got the word of his death one afternoon in the sitting-room, the room in which he had bade her good-bye.  She was reading when the telephone rang.

“Is this the Wheeler farm?  This is the telegraph office at Frankfort.  We have a message from the War Department,—­” the voice hesitated.  “Isn’t Mr. Wheeler there?”

“No, but you can read the message to me.”

Mrs. Wheeler said, “Thank you,” and hung up the receiver.  She felt her way softly to her chair.  She had an hour alone, when there was nothing but him in the room,—­but him and the map there, which was the end of his road.  Somewhere among those perplexing names, he had found his place.

Claude’s letters kept coming for weeks afterward; then came the letters from his comrades and his Colonel to tell her all.

In the dark months that followed, when human nature looked to her uglier than it had ever done before, those letters were Mrs. Wheeler’s comfort.  As she read the newspapers, she used to think about the passage of the Red Sea, in the Bible; it seemed as if the flood of meanness and greed had been held back just long enough for the boys to go over, and then swept down and engulfed everything that was left at home.  When she can see nothing that has come of it all but evil, she reads Claude’s letters over again and reassures herself; for him the call was clear, the cause was glorious.  Never a doubt stained his bright faith.  She divines so much that he did not write.  She knows what to read into those short flashes of enthusiasm; how fully he must have found his life before he could let himself go so far—­he, who was so afraid of being fooled!  He died believing his own country better than it is, and France better than any country can ever be.  And those were beautiful beliefs to die with.  Perhaps it was as well to see that vision, and then to see no more.  She would have dreaded the awakening,—­she sometimes even doubts whether he could have borne at all that last, desolating disappointment.  One by one the heroes of that war, the men of dazzling soldiership, leave prematurely the world they have come back to.  Airmen whose deeds were tales of wonder, officers whose names made the blood of youth beat faster, survivors of incredible dangers,—­one by one they quietly die by their own hand.  Some do it in obscure lodging houses, some in their office, where they seemed to be carrying on their business like other men.  Some slip over a vessel’s side and disappear into the sea.  When Claude’s mother hears of these things, she shudders and presses her hands tight over her breast, as if she had him there.  She feels as if God had saved him from some horrible suffering, some horrible end.  For as she reads, she thinks those slayers of themselves were all so like him; they were the ones who had hoped extravagantly,—­who in order to do what they did had to hope extravagantly, and to believe passionately.  And they found they had hoped and believed too much.  But one she knew, who could ill bear disillusion... safe, safe.