oward."

"_No_, Hugh."

"Yes. And Dad, I'm afraid--now. But I've got the hang of things, and
nothing could keep me. Will you, do you despise me--now--that I still
hate it--if--if I go just the same?"

The big young chap shook so that his mother, his tall mother, put her
arms about him to steady him. He clutched her hand hard and repeated,
through quivering lips, "Would you despise me still, Dad?"

For a moment the father could not answer. Then difficult tears of
manhood and maturity forced their way from his eyes and unheeded rolled
down his cheeks. With a step he put his arms about the boy as if the boy
were a child, and the boy threw his about his father's shoulders.

For a long second the two tall men stood so. The woman, standing apart,
through the shipwreck of her earthly life was aware only of happiness
safe where sorrow and loss could not touch it. What was separation,
death itself, when love stronger than death held people together as it
held Hugh and her boys and herself? Then the older Hugh stood away,
still clutching the lad's hand, smiling through unashamed tears.

"Hugh," he said, "in all America there's not a man prouder of his son
than I am of you. There's not a braver soldier in our armies than the
soldier who's to take my name into France." He stopped and steadied
himself; he went on: "It would have broken my heart, boy, if you had
failed--failed America. And your mother--and Brock and me. Failed your
own honor. It would have meant for us shame and would have bowed our
heads; it would have meant for you disaster. Don't fear for your
courage, Hugh; the Lord won't forsake the man who carries the Lord's
colors."

Young Hugh turned suddenly to his mother. "I'm at peace now. You and
Dad--honor me. I'll deserve respect from--my country. It will be a wall
around me--And--" he caught her to him and crushed his mouth to
hers--"dearest--Brock will hold my hand."

THE SILVER STIRRUP

In the most unexpected spots vital sparks of history blaze out. Time
seems, once in a while, powerless to kill a great memory. Romance blooms
sometimes untarnished across centuries of commonplace. In a new world
old France lives.

* * * * *

It is computed that about one-seventh of the French-Canadian population
of Canada enlisted in the great war. The stampede of heroism seems to
have left them cold. A Gospel of the Province first congealed the none
too fiery blood of the _habitant