voice or feel his kiss, or see the dear lad, as he used in
these later years to do, standing in front of the fireplace
talking down at me on the chair or listening to me talking
up at him on Saturday nights. You can picture him, I have no
doubt. Now all is over, his place in the home is empty--but
in the heart that can never be. His Mum (as he always called
his mother) is heart-broken, but very brave. The dear woman
is worthy to have had such a son, and that is praise indeed.
If she was prouder of one of the children or made any
distinction between them, George held that place, and though
I think we were all conscious of it, none of us grudged it
him. And that is the greatest tribute that could be paid to
him--when you think it out. We are all jealous of Mother's
love. We all want it, and if one is first he must be good
indeed if it is not a cause of trouble. And that it never
was in his case.

"Now, my dear lad, I have a proposal to make to you. We
received some money to send things out to the lads at the
front, and there is some left. Besides, George sent some
home, so that he might get what he wanted sent him without
asking if I could afford it, I suppose. Well, I am to send
you some little thing every now and then; you are to get
another friend and share with him, and you are to make every
endeavour short of cowardice (of which you are not capable)
to save your life, valuable to all who have the privilege of
knowing you, doubly valuable to your mother, and precious to
your many friends. We feel we have a personal claim on you,
and I am writing you just as I would were you indeed my boy,
and we entreat you to bear up, to do your duty, to be a