eople whose hearts are so utterly black and whose process of
reasoning is so oxlike--they are so stupidly brutal. I knew then that
no man could die better than in defending civilization from this
ghastly thing which threatened her!

Soon after that I knew, without a word being said, that my boy wanted
to go--I saw the seriousness come into his face, and knew what it
meant. It was when the news from the Dardanelles was heavy on our
hearts, and the newspapers spoke gravely of the outlook.

One day he looked up quickly and said, "I want to go--I want to help
the British Empire--while there is a British Empire!"

And then I realized that my boy, my boy, had suddenly become a man and
had put away childish things forever.

I shall always be glad that the call came to him, not in the
intoxication of victory, but in the dark hour of apparent defeat.

CHAPTER III

LET'S PRETEND

Let's pretend the skies are blue,
Let's pretend the world is new,
And the birds of hope are singing
All the day!

Short of gladness--learn to fake it!
Long on sadness--go and shake it!
Life is only--what you make it,
Anyway!

There is wisdom without end
In the game of "Let's pretend!"

We played it to-day. We had to, for the boys went away, and we had to
send our boys away with a smile! They will have heartaches and
homesickness a-plenty, without going away with their memories charged
with a picture of their mothers in tears, for that's what takes the
heart out of a boy. They are so young, so brave, we felt that we must
not fail them.

With such strong words as these did we admonish each other, when we
met the last night, four of us, whose sons were among the boys who
were going away. We talked hard and strong on this theme, not having
a very good grip on it ourselves, I am afraid. We simply harangued
each other on the idleness of tears at stations. Every one of us had
something to say; and when we parted, it was with the tacit
understanding that there was an Anti-Tear League formed--the boys were
leaving on an early train in the morning!

* * * * *

The morning is a dismal time anyway, and teeth will chatter, no matter
how brave you feel! It is a squeamish, sickly, choky time,--a winter
morning before the sun is up; and you simply cannot eat breakfast when
you look round the table and see every chair filled,--even the
five-year-old fellow is on hand,--and kno