that it hurt, because physical pain will distract and steady a mind.
"Brocky, I want to ask you to do something."

"Yes'm," answered Brock.

"It's this. Of course, I know you're going soon, over there."

Brock looked at her gravely.

"Yes, I know, I want to ask you if--if _it_ happens--will you come and
tell me yourself? If it's allowed."

Brock did not even touch her hand; he knew well she could not bear it.
He answered quietly, with a sweet, commonplace manner as if that other
world to which he might be going was a place too familiar in his
thoughts for any great strain in speaking of it. "Yes, Mummy," he said.
"Of course I will. I'd have wanted to anyway, even if you hadn't said
it. It seems to me--" He lifted his young face, square-jawed,
fresh-colored, and there was a vision-seeing look in his eyes which his
mother had known at times before. He looked across the city lying at
their feet, and the river, and the blue hills beyond, and he spoke
slowly, as if shaping a thought. "So many fellows have 'gone west'
lately that there must he some way. It seems as if all that mass of love
and--and desire to reach back and touch--the ones left--as if all that
must have built a sort of bridge over the river--so that a fellow might
probably come back and--and tell his mother--"

Brock's voice stopped, and suddenly she was in his arms, his face was
against hers, and hot tears not her own were on her cheek. Then he was
shaking his head as if to shake off the strong emotion.