On turning to the list of casualties which appeared, I saw to my horror that Hugh Lethbridge was missing. What that might mean I could not of course tell, but the news made my heart as heavy as lead. During the months I had known him I had become much attracted to the young fellow and had conceived a strong affection for him. If he had been my own brother I do not think I could have felt the news more keenly than I did. But more than that I reflected upon the sorrow of his young wife, and the pain his mother would be suffering. I called to mind the last letter I had received from him.

"Of course, we live only from hour to hour here," he said; "in fact, only from minute to minute. I have known chaps who have been laughing and joking one minute and have been hurled into eternity the next. That might happen to me. I am feeling very fit just now, but what may be my fate to-morrow, God only knows. I do not trouble so much about myself, but it is Mary I am constantly thinking about. She writes me often, and on the whole is very cheerful, but I know what she is feeling. I do not fear death so much except for her and for mother. As for father and Bella, I do not think they would care much. Anyhow, I would rather be killed than taken prisoner. From what I can hear, those Germans act as devils towards English prisoners."

I wondered what the term "missing" might mean. Of course, he had been lost sight of, but whether he had been taken prisoner or not was not clear from what the paper said.

"Going out, sir?" said Simpson, as I put on a light overcoat.

"Yes, Simpson, I am going up to Trecarrel."

"Any bad news, sir?"

"Yes," I replied. "Mr. Hugh Lethbridge is missing."

"Dear, dear sir!" Then lapsing into his old formula when he did not know what to say, he added, "Yes, sir; thank you, sir."

I had scarcely come within sight of Trecarrel when I had an attack of my old malady. It was not severe. Nevertheless, while it lasted it was terrible. I thought I should have fainted on the footpath on which I walked. Presently it passed away somewhat, and, undeterred by my suffering, I made my way towards the house. At that moment my last meeting with Isabella Lethbridge had no weight with me whatever. In fact, I did not anticipate seeing her. However, she must have seen me as I came up the drive, for it was not a servant but she who opened the door.

"What is the matter? You are ill!" she cried. "I—I never saw you looking like this before."

"That does not matter," was my reply. "I am all right now. I came up because—because...." I did not finish the sentence. I was startled by the look in her eyes. I saw her lips quivering. "Your father and mother are in?" I queried.

"Yes, but—but I do not think you had better see them now."

"It may not be so bad after all," I said, trying to speak cheerfully. "The paper only reports him missing."

"Oh, but haven't you heard? No, of course you can't have. But you ought not to be here. You look so ill, so terribly ill."

"She must care for her brother more than I thought. She speaks like one in terrible distress," I reflected. "Oh, no, I am not ill at all now," I said aloud, "but I saw the paper just now, and I could not help coming. It is not so bad as it might be, is it? While there is life there is hope."

"But there is no hope," she said. "Hugh is dead."

"Dead! Why, the paper——"

"Yes, yes, I know; but we have had a special message. It came late last night. Hugh is dead. Hugh is killed."

I stood like one stunned, I could not speak. The news had struck me dumb.

"Can't you say something?" she cried. "No, of course you can't. And you ought not to be here either. I will order a carriage to take you back," she added like one distraught. Her words came almost in gasps.

"And your father and mother?" I asked, without seeming to notice what she had said. "I hope—I hope——"

"Mother is wonderful. You see, she expected nothing else. She always said from the day that Hugh went to the front that he would be killed. Oh, yes, mother is wonderful, but my father.... Perhaps, after all, he will see you. Shall I tell him you are here?"

"Perhaps it would be better not, after all," was my reply. "I suppose I ought not to have come here; it was foolish; but I was so overwhelmed with the news that I could not help myself."

She looked at me for a few seconds in a way that I had never seen her look before, and then left the room suddenly. Presently I heard heavy footsteps coming towards me, and then Josiah Lethbridge entered the room. He looked years older than on the previous night, but the same stern strength of the man manifested itself. He held himself erect, and hid any emotions he might have felt.

"Excuse me for coming, Mr. Lethbridge, but although I had known Hugh for such a short time, I loved him as if he were my own brother."

"It is very kind of you to come," he said almost coldly; and then, "But you ought not to be here."

At that moment Mrs. Lethbridge entered, and I could not help being struck by her appearance. There was a new dignity in her every look and movement. A kind of holy pride shone from her eyes, although it was easy to see that they were not strangers to tears. The suggestion of inconsequence which had struck me when I had first seen her was entirely gone.

"I am pleased to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "You were Hugh's friend."

"I came to tell you how—how grieved I am."

"You must not speak like that," she said quietly. "My boy died in a holy cause. 'He saved others, but himself he would not save.'"

"Yes," I said, "that is true. One cannot think of him as dead in the ordinary way. When one gives his life willingly for what he believes to be the highest and the holiest, death has lost its sting."

"Oh, he is not dead!" she said. "I could not think of him as dead. The spirit which led him to do what he did can never die. Have you seen what they have said about him? Here, read his Colonel's letter, will you?" And she passed me a missive which I could see had been stained by many tears.

It was the letter of a plain, blunt soldier who was not gifted with great literary powers, and yet because it was so simple, so straightforward, it was more eloquent than if it had been written by a master of words. It described how Hugh, in the face of almost certain death, had undertaken work which might mean incalculable advantage to the British Army—that he had led his men forward in the face of withering fire, and that he had done what he set out to do. At first it was thought that he had been taken prisoner, as no signs of him were to be seen, but presently his body was discovered, almost mutilated out of recognition, yet plainly to be identified by infallible signs.

"He died a hero," concluded the plain, blunt soldier, "died for his country and his God. Had he lived, I should have recommended him for a captaincy right away, but he has received his promotion in a better world."

"That is it, don't you see?" said Mrs. Lethbridge, "he has received his promotion."

I could not keep back the tears which started to my eyes. I longed, no one knows how I longed, for the assurance which filled the mother's heart. Nevertheless, I could not help being gladdened by her faith.

"He will not come to me, but I shall go to him," she went on. "Do you know, Mr. Erskine, a few days ago I began to hope that he would return, and I pictured him coming back to St. Issey well and strong. I saw the people doing my boy honor; but that was pure fancy on my part, and it does not matter now. Yes, I shall go to him."

I could not help glancing at Josiah Lethbridge as she spoke. I wondered what he, who had driven his son from home, felt at that moment; but his face told me nothing; he might not have heard his wife's words. It was hard and stony and emotionless. But he did not rebuke his wife as he would have rebuked her the day before. He who had forbidden his family to mention Hugh's name sat silent, his face grave, ashen, his eyes fixed on the floor. What he felt or thought I could not tell, but I could not help believing that he shared his wife's pride. How could it be otherwise? After all, Hugh was his son.

"Bella told me that you looked terribly ill," went on Mrs. Lethbridge. "Certainly you do look pale, but better than she led me to believe. May I order you some refreshments?"

"No, I am better now," I replied, and glancing towards the mirror, I saw that my face had resumed its normal color.

Scarcely had she spoken than I heard the sound of wheels on the drive outside, and a minute later Squire Treherne was shown into the room.

"I could not help coming," said the bluff old man. "The last time I was here I told you—but never mind what I told you—that is over now. I just glanced at the paper this morning, and then, before I knew what I was doing, I was on my way here. We must hope for the best! He is only reported as missing."

But Josiah Lethbridge did not speak a word. Instead, he looked out of the window as though interested in the trees which were just bursting into life.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Lethbridge," went on the Squire, "I did not notice you; it was very rude of me."

Mrs. Lethbridge did not speak a word. She simply handed him the letter of Hugh's Colonel.

"God bless my soul! I did not know this," he stammered. "No—no, I did not know this, but—but——"

"I never felt so proud in all my life," said the mother. "I always knew that my boy was a good boy; now I know that he was a hero. He laid down his life willingly."

Still Josiah Lethbridge did not speak. His eyes were still fixed on the trees in the park.

"I know what you are feeling," said the Squire, after a few seconds of almost painful silence. "I know, I know. I lost my only son in the Boer War, and I—I have never been the same man since. Can—can I do anything for you?" he added.

"I was just going to suggest," I said, "that I should go over to John Treleaven's farm and see Hugh's wife. She will, of course, have heard the news."

"Thank you, Mr. Erskine," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "but that is my work. It is my duty to go and comfort my son's wife."

Again I noticed the new tone in her voice. The last time I was at the house she would not have dared to suggest such a thing. She would have feared her husband's anger, but now she stated her intentions naturally. She did not even look towards Josiah Lethbridge as she spoke, but I, who glanced at him at that moment, saw that his face never moved a muscle.

"If you would do something for me," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "take care of Mr. Erskine. My daughter told me just now that he was very ill and ought not to have come here."

"God bless my soul! you do look seedy," said the Squire. "What is the matter?"

"I only had a slight attack of my old trouble, and I look a great deal worse than I am."

"All the same, I am going to take you back with me," said the Squire. "No, no, I shall take no denial. That hut of yours on the cliff, with only a man-servant to look after you, is certainly no place for a man who feels seedy. You—you are sure I can do nothing for you, Mrs. Lethbridge? I do feel for you, God knows that. All the same, I do envy you. I wish I had another son to give. Yes, ten sons; I should be prouder than words can say to send every one of them. Somehow this terrible business makes one think differently of life, makes one feel that we have had wrong ideas of everything. Somehow we have confused existing with living."

Surely that was a morning of happenings, for scarcely had the Squire spoken than a servant entered the room bearing a letter. It came from the Vicar.

Josiah Lethbridge took the letter without a word and read it through with the same unmoved countenance. After he had done so he passed it to his wife.

"This is kind of Mr. Trelaske," she said. "He must be burdened by his own sorrow, yet he sends this letter to us. Of course he does not know all the truth."

I rose to go. I felt that I should be intruding if I stayed longer. I held out my hand to Mr. Lethbridge, who took it almost mechanically.

"It is very kind of you to call," he said. "And—and take care of yourself; you are not strong, you know."

When I reached the hall I found Isabella Lethbridge standing there.

"That letter from the Colonel is simply splendid," I said. "Of course your loss must be terrible, but you must be proud of your brother."

She made no reply, neither could I understand the look on her face. It was not so much sorrow I saw, as wonder and amazement.

"Funny family!" said the Squire to me, as we drove away. "Did you notice that the man never spoke a word?"

I nodded, and the Squire went on:

"My God! what must he be suffering! Drove the boy from home too! But—but, don't I wish he were my boy! Anyhow, there is going to be a change in that house."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The atmosphere is different. Did you notice Mrs. Lethbridge's face? Did you hear what she said?"

When we reached St. Issey, I asked the Squire to tell the driver to drop me, as I could easily walk to my house; but the old man would not have it.

"No, no, Erskine," he said, "you must come up and spend the day with me; I have nothing to do. Do you know, I have often felt condemned at leaving you so much alone; but you seemed as though you did not wish for society. Still, I have got you now! Yes, yes, I will send word to that man of yours, telling him what has happened to you."

A few minutes later I was snugly ensconced in the Squire's library, while Mrs. Treherne and her daughter fussed about me as though I were an invalid. I must confess that it was pleasant to be ministered to by a woman's hands. Simpson was all very well, but I do not think that any man knows what to do in the time of illness as a woman does.

"What are you thinking about, Erskine?" asked the Squire presently, after he had placed a box of cigars before me.

"I was thinking about Mr. Lethbridge's face," I said. "I was wondering what he must be feeling."

"A hard man, Erskine, a hard man. A man who has lived to make money; a man who has always had his own way. Whatever he has touched has turned to gold, whatever he has willed has come to pass." The Squire sighed as he spoke. "He has pulled all sorts of people into his net," he went on, "and got all sorts of people into his power. He does not say much, but he could ruin lots of us if he willed so to do."

I called to mind what Hugh Lethbridge had told me, and I fancy I knew what the old man was thinking.

"Sometimes, deep down in my heart," went on the Squire, "I have called him a Shylock; but I am not going to think about that now. He is passing through deep waters."

After lunch, I again announced my intention of returning home, but was again dissuaded; not only the Squire, but neither his wife nor his daughter would hear of my going.

"We will have an informal dinner at six o'clock," said the old man, "then you must come with me to the prayer-meeting."

The idea seemed so incongruous that I could not help smiling.

"Yes, I know what you are thinking," said the Squire, with a laugh. "I have never been to a prayer-meeting in my life, and I had no thought of going until you kind of suggested it to me yourself after last night's service; but when I came to think about it, it seemed natural and right. We are in for a stiff job, Erskine. I never realized it as I do now. Those Germans stand at nothing! Nothing is too devilish for them to do! Poisoned gases, poisoned wells, sinking passenger ships, killing defenseless women and children, murdering our soldiers, even when they are in the act of doing them a kindness,—nothing is too bad for them. But they are strong! They are strong! We do not realize yet how strong they are. They have utilized all the resources of their country to beat us, to crush us, and we shall have to use every ounce of strength we possess to come out on top. As the Prime Minister said, we must be prepared to shed our last drop of blood.

"But that is not all, Erskine. I know I have not been a religious man in the ordinary sense of the word, although I have gone to Church and tried to act straight, but it seems to me as though God wants to teach us a lesson. He is wanting to bring us to our senses. Never in my life have I realized the need of God as I do now, and if we are to fight His battles we need to go to Him for help. I have seen, too, how paltry is the spite which exists between the sects. God bless my soul! What, after all, does the Almighty care whether we go to Church or to Chapel? And it may be that this war will teach us how silly we have been. That is why, in spite of my prejudices, I am glad that Trelaske announced the meeting for to-night. Yes, I am going, Erskine, and I hope you are going too."

At seven o'clock that night the Squire and I stood at the door of the village schoolroom, for we had both determined to go to the prayer-meeting.