r
vision that came up now, unbidden. It was a vision of him lying stark
and cold upon the battlefield, the mud on his uniform. And when I saw
that vision I was like a man gone mad and possessed of devils who had
stolen away his faculties. I cursed war as I saw that vision, and the
men who caused war. And when I thought of the Germans who had killed
my boy a terrible and savage hatred swept me, and I longed to go out
there and kill with my bare hands until I had avenged him or they had
killed me too.

But then I was a little softened. I thought of his mother back in our
wee hoose at Dunoon. And the thought of her, bereft even as I was,
sorrowing, even as I was, and lost in her frightful loneliness, was
pitiful, so that I had but the one desire and wish--to go to her, and
join my tears with hers, that we who were left alone to bear our
grief might bear it together and give one to the other such comfort
as there might be in life for us. And so I fell upon my knees and
prayed, there in my lonely room in the hotel. I prayed to God that he
might give us both, John's mother and myself, strength to bear the
blow that had been dealt us and to endure the sacrifice that He and
our country had demanded of us.

My friends came to me. They came rushing to me. Never did man have
better friends, and kindlier friends than mine proved themselves to
me on that day of sorrow. They did all that good men and women could
do. But there was no help for me in the ministration of friends. I
was beyond the power of human words to comfort or solace. I was glad
of their kindness, and the memory of it now is a precious one, and
one I would not be without. But at such a time I could not gain from
them what they were eager to give me. I could only bow my head and
pray for strength.

That night, that New Year's night that I shall never forget, no
matter how long God may let me live, I went north. I took train from
London to Glasgow, and the next day I came to our wee hoose--a sad,
lonely wee hoose it had become now!--on the Clyde at Dunoon, and was
with John's mother. It was the place for me. It was there that I
wanted to be, and it was with her, who must hereafter be all the
world to me. And I was eager to be with her, too, who had given John
to me. Sore as my grief was, stricken as I was, I could comfort her
as no one else could hope to do, and she could do as much for me. We
belonged together.

I can scarce remember, even for myself, what happe