"It's not likely to happen, dear. The casualties in this war are
tremendously lower than in--"

"I know," she interrupted. "Of course, they are. Of course, you're
coming home without a scratch, and likely a general, and conceited
beyond words. How will we stand you!"

Brock laughed delightedly. "You're a peach," he stated. "That's the
sort. Laughing mothers to send us off--it makes a whale of a
difference."

That October afternoon had now dropped eight months back, and still the
house seemed lost without Brock, especially on this June twentieth, the
day that was his and hers, the day when there had always been "doings"
second only to Christmas at Lindow. But she gathered up her courage like
a woman. Hugh the elder was coming tonight from his dollar-a-year work
in Washington, her man who had moved heaven and earth to get into active
service, and who, when finally refused because of his forty-nine years
and a defective eye, had left his great business as if it were a joke,
and had put his whole time, and strength, and experience, and fortune at
the service of the Government--as plenty of other American men were
doing. Hugh was coming in time for her birthday dinner, and young Hugh
was with them--Her heart shrank as if a sharp thing touched it. How
would it be when they rose to drink Brock's health? She knew pretty well
what her cousin, the judge, would say:

"The soldier in France! God bring him home well and glorious!"

How would it be for her other boy then, the boy who was not in France?