word had been said,
every farewell spoken; they were not the sort who say tempestuous
good-byes, but their silence was like the silence of the open grave.
There were many sad-faced women, wheeling go-carts, with children
holding to their skirts crying loudly for "Daddy." There were tired,
untidy women, overrun by circumstances, with that look about them
which the Scotch call "through-other." There were many brave little
boys and girls standing by their mothers, trying hard not to cry;
there were many babies held up to the car-window to kiss a big brother
or a father; there were the groups of chattering young people, with
their boxes of candy and incessant fun; there were brides of a day,
with their white-fox furs and new suits, and the great new sorrow in
their eyes.

One fine-looking young giant made his way toward the train without
speaking to any one, passing where a woman held her husband's hands,
crying hysterically--we were trying to persuade her to let him go,
for the conductor had given the first warning.

"I have no one to cry over me, thank God!" he said, "and I think I am
the best off." But the bitterness in his tone belied his words.

"Then maybe I could pretend that you are my boy," said a woman's voice
behind me, which sounded familiar; "you see I have no boy--now, and
nobody to write to--and I just came down to-night to see if I could
find one. I want to have some one belonging to me--even if they are
going away!"

The young man laid down his bag and took her hand awkwardly. "I sure
would be glad to oblige you," he said, "only I guess you could get one
that was lots nicer. I am just a sort of a bo-hunk from the North
Country."

"You'll do me," said the old lady, whom I recognized at once as my
former train companion,--"you'll do me fine. Tell me your name and
number, and I'll be your war-mother,--here's my card, I have it all
ready,--I knew I'd get some one. Now, remember, I am your Next of Kin.
Give in my name and I'll get the cable when you get the D.S.O., and
I'll write to you every week and send you things. I just can't keep
from sending parcels."

"Gee! This is sudden!" said the boy, laughing; "but it's nice!"

"I lost my boys just as suddenly as this," she said. "Billy and Tom
went out together--they were killed at Saint-Eloi, but Frank came
through it all to Vimy Ridge. Then the message came ... sudden too.
One day I had him--then I lost him! Why shouldn't nice things come
suddenly too--