I can't tell you what a help you've
been this morning."

She was thrilled by that. And after he left her she thought much about
him. Of what it would have meant to her to have a son like that.

Women had said to her, "You should be glad that you have no boy to
send--." But she was not glad. Were they mad, these mothers, to want
to hold their boys back? Had the days of peace held no dangers that
they should be so afraid for them now?

For peace had dangers--men and women had been worshipping false gods.
They had set up a Golden Calf and had bowed before it--and their
children, lured by luxury, emasculated by ease of living, had wanted
more ease, more luxury, more time in which to--play!

And now life had become suddenly a vivid Crusade, with everybody
marching in one direction, and the young men were manly in the old ways
of strength and heroism, and the young women were womanly in the old
way of sending their lovers forth, and in a new way, when, like
Drusilla, they went forth themselves to the front line of battle.

To have children in these days, meant to have something to give. One
need not stand before suffering humanity empty-handed!

War was a monstrous thing, a murderous thing--but surely this war was a
righteous one--a fire which would cleanse the world. Men and women,
because of it, were finding in themselves something which could suffer
for others, something in themselves which could sacrifice, something
which went beyond body and mind, something which reached up and touched
their souls.

So, in the midst of darkness, Miss Emily had a vision of Light. After
the war was over, things could never be as they had been before. The
spirit which had sent men forth in this Crusade, which had sent women,
would survive, please God, and show itself in a greater sense of
fellowship--of brotherhood. Might not men, even in peace, go on
praying as they were praying it now in war, the prayer of Cromwell's
men, "Oh, Lord, it's a hard battle, but it's for the rights of the
common people--" Might not the rich young men who were learning to be
the brothers of the poor, and the poor young men who were learning in a
large sense of the brotherhood of the rich--might these not still clasp
hands in a sacred cause?

Yes, she was sorry that she had no son. Slim and gray-haired, a little
worn by life's struggle, her blood quickened at the thought of a son
like Derry. The warmth of his handclasp, the glimpse of that