Bill," he answered, as if my voice had helped him
to normality a bit, "I started off by saying I'd write to anybody for
him, and wasn't there somebody at home maybe? And he smiled out of his
torture, and said 'Nobody.'

"Then I said how proud we were of such Americans as he had shown
himself and how much he'd helped. I told him what Teddy Frith said of
how he'd put heart into the men. And about the war cross. At that his
face brightened.

"'Did he really say I'd helped?' He was awfully pleased. Then he
considered a moment and spoke: 'There's one lad I'd like to have
know--if it's possible to find him--and if he ever knows anything about
me--that I died decently.'

"I threw at him--little dreaming the truth, yet eagerly--'I'll find
him. I promise it. What's his name?'

"And he smiled again, an alluring, sidewise smile he had, and said:
'Why, the same name as mine--John Donaldson. He was my baby.'

"Then for the first time the truth came in sight, and my heart stood
still. I couldn't speak. But I thought fast. I feared giving him a
shock, yet I had to know--I had to tell him. I put my free hand over
his that clung to me and I said: 'Do you know, Mr. Donaldson, it's
queer, but that's my name too. I also am John Donaldson.'

"He turned his head with a start and his eyes got wide. 'You are?' he
said, and he peered at me in the half light. 'I believe you look like
me. God!' he said. His face seemed to sharpen and he shot words at me.
'Quick!' he said. 'I mayn't have time. What was your mother's name?'

"I told him.

"He was so still for a breath that I thought I'd killed him. Then his
face lighted--quite angelically, Uncle Bill. And he whispered, two or
three words at a time--you know the words, Uncle Bill--Tennyson:

"'Sunset and evening star' he whispered:

"'Sunset and evening star,

"'And one clear call for me----'

"He patted the breast of his bloody, grimy uniform. 'Following the
flag! Me! My son to hold my hand as I go out! I hadn't dreamed of such
a passing.' Then he looked up at me, awfully interested. 'So you're my
big son,' he said. 'My baby.'

"I knew that he was remembering the little shaver he'd left twenty
years back. So I leaned over and kissed him, and he got his arm around
my neck and held me pretty tight a minute, and nobody cared. All those
dying, suffering, last-ditch men lying around, and the two worn-out
doctors hurrying among 'em--they didn't care. No more did he and I. I'd
found my fa