of the childhood so near, so utterly gone. "I'd like Dad to
respect me again," the boy spoke in a wistful, uncertain voice. "It's
darned wretched to have your father despise you." He looked at her
then. "Mummy, you're tired out; your face is gray. I'm a beast to keep
you up. Go to bed, dear."

He kissed her, and with his arm around her waist led her through the
dark hall to the door of her room, and kissed her again. And again, as
she stood and watched there, he turned on the threshold of the den and
threw one more kiss across the darkness, and his face shone with a smile
that sent her to bed, smiling through her tears. She lay in the
darkness, fragrant of honeysuckle outside, and her sore heart was full
of the boys--of Hugh struggling in his crisis; still more, perhaps, of
Brock whose birthday it was, Brock in France, in the midst of "many and
great dangers," yet--she knew--serene and buoyant among them because his
mind was "stayed." Not long these thoughts held her; for she was so
deadened with the stress of many emotions that nature asserted itself
and shortly she feel asleep.

It may have been two or three hours she slept. She knew afterward that
it must have been at about three of the summer morning when a dream
came which, detailed and vivid as it was, probably filled in time only
the last minute or so before awakening. It seemed to her that glory
suddenly flooded the troubled world; the infinite, intimate joy,
impossible to put into words, was yet a defined and long first chapter
of her dream. After that she stood on the bank of a river, a river
perhaps miles wide, and with the new light-heartedness filling her she
looked and saw a mighty bridge which ran brilliant with many-colored
lights, from her to the misty further shore of the river. Over the
bridge passed a throng of radiant young men, boys, all in uniform. "How
glorious!" she seemed to cry out in delight, and with that she saw
Brock.

Very far off, among the crowd of others, she saw him, threading his way
through the throng. He came, unhurried yet swift, and on his face was an
amused, loving smile which was perhaps the look of him which she
remembered best. By his side walked old Mavourneen, the wolf-hound,
Brock's hand on the shaggy head. The two swung steadily toward her,
Brock smiling into her eyes, holding her eyes with his, and as they
were closer, she heard Mavourneen crying in wordless dumb joy, crying as
she had not done since the day when Broc