“And yet, when one allows oneself to think about it all, after reading the terrible accounts of the fighting--and he would have me read them all to him--it seems almost impossible that any of them can come back alive.” “We had forty-nine of them the other day, and it’s amazing how well they stand it. They’re as cheerful as can be, laughing and chaffing and joking. And yet some of them are pretty bad. It’s just as well for all of us to take the cheerful view of things.” “And then, just when Uncle Tony goes, and we were feeling it so badly, you come in with your good news of Con. I can’t tell you how glad I am, Al.” “I know, dear. And I’ll be just as glad for you one of these days. Pin your faith to Uncle Tony.” And through the many dark days when no news came--and in those days no news did not as a rule mean good news--the thought of Uncle Tony’s last words held mighty comfort for them all. They would have liked to bury him quietly, with no great outward show of the esteem and love in which they held him. Their feelings were too deep for any outward expression and the times hardly seemed suitable for making parade of death. There was sorrow enough abroad without emphasising it. But Colonel Sir Anthony Luard, V.C., C.B., was a person of consequence. He had died for his country as truly as any man killed at the front. The higher powers decreed him a military funeral, and the quieter-thinking ones at home had to give way. And, after all, they believed it would please him. So, on a gun-carriage, escorted by a detachment from the reserve battalion of his old regiment, with muffled drums and mournful music, and the Last Post and the crackle of guns, he was laid to rest. And the others picked up the threads of life again and kept his memory sweet by constantly missing him and remembering all his sayings and doings. His lawyer, Mr. Benfleet of Lincoln’s Inn, came out immediately after the funeral and explained to all concerned--so far as they were available--the remarkably thoughtful provisions of his will. It had been made--or remade--immediately after the return of Ray and Lois from abroad, and it aimed at the comfort and security of all his little circle, so far as he could provide for these. There were many wet eyes and brimming hearts as Mr. Benfleet went quietly through the details. To Miss Amelia Mitten--“my very dear and trusted friend”--he left four hundred pounds a year for life. And Auntie Mitt, with her little black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed gratefully. To Margaret Dare--wife of John Dare of The Red House, Willstead,--“in token of my very great love and esteem,”--he left the sum of £20,000, settled inalienably on herself, with power to will it at her death to whom she chose. “To my niece, Victoria Luard--who-might-have-been-Balaclava,”--it was down there in the will in black and white, and they came near to smiling at the very characteristic touch,--the sum of £50,000 on attaining the age of twenty-one.