Unphrased, a thought flashed, "I hope, I do hope Hughie will be very
lame tonight."

The little dog slipped from her and barked in remonstrance as she threw
out her hands and stood up. Old Mavourneen pulled herself to her feet,
too, a huge, beautiful beast, and the woman stooped and put her arm
lovingly about the furry neck. "Mavourneen, you know a lot. You know our
Brock's away." At the name the big dog whined and looked up anxious,
inquiring. "And you know--do you know, dear dog, that Hughie ought to
go? Do you? Mavourneen, it's like the prayer-book says, 'The burden of
it is intolerable.' I can't bear to lose him, and I can't, O God! I
can't bear to keep him." She straightened. "As you say, Mavourneen,
it's time to dress for dinner."

The birthday party went better than one could have hoped. Nobody broke
down at Brock's name; everybody exulted in the splendid episode of his
heroism, months back, which had won him the war cross. The letter from
Jim Colledge and his own birthday letter, garrulous and gay, were read.
Brock had known well that the day would be hard to get through and had
made that letter out of brutal cheerfulness. Yet every one felt his
longing to be at the celebration, missed for the first time in his life,
pulsing through the words. Young Hugh read it and made it sweet with a
lovely devotion to and pride in his brother. A heart of stone could not
have resisted Hugh that night. And then the party was over, and the
woman and her man, seeing each other seldom now, talked over things for
an hour. After, through her open door, she saw a bar of light under the
door of the den, Brock's and Hugh's den.

"Hughie," she spoke, and on the instant the dark panel flashed into
light.