As Mrs. Swift passed out of church, she thought herself rather unnecessarily crowded by a tall woman in black. She answered two or three friendly comments on her bundled-up appearance by saying that, “heavy shawl and all, she was still cold, at least part of the time,” and, “yes, come to think of it, she was shivering half her time yesterday”; “yes, it was a lovely day,” and so slipped away as quickly as she could, and started to walk across the Public Square, that she might be alone; and then a woman in black was at her side--a woman whose eyes were big and bright with anger; whose trembling finger tapped her on the arm, as she swiftly said: “Madam, this shawl is not your property; it is mine!” Mrs. Swift was so startled--so utterly taken aback--that at first she could only stare at the stranger and say, stupidly: “What--what did you say?” And the stranger, in increasing anger, repeated: “This shawl is not your property--it is mine, I tell you! My most precious treasure--_mine_--and I can prove it, too, by marks you cannot gainsay!” But Mrs. Swift drew away from the tapping finger, exclaiming: “Do you know who you are talking to? You must be crazy! Why, I’ve owned this shawl these five years!” “Five years?” scornfully cried the other, “I owned it long enough to know its full design--the dealer’s private mark--that my boy showed me when he brought it to me from his first trip abroad--and in the corner, here on the under side, beneath a rough seam in the border, you will find two letters worked in white silk--an ‘M’ and a ‘W,’ and beneath them both a tiny star in many-colored threads. See, then--” She caught swiftly at the corner of the shawl nearest her--turned it back--scanned it closely, and then triumphantly pointed out two small, imperfect letters in white silk--“M” and “W,” with the star beneath, as she had said. Mrs. Swift felt her face flush, but she bravely looked the excited woman in the face: “I do not understand,” she said. “This shawl was a gift to me from my only son!” “A poor gift that--of ill-gotten property!” cried the woman in black, and then Martha Swift lifted stern, blue eyes and said: “Madam, my son was a soldier! He lies out there, beneath his tombstone now! Do not insult his memory!” And she of the black, burning eyes said quickly: “My son fell at the Bloody Angle--he was not identified--and fills some corner of a trench that is marked, if marked at all, by a stone bearing the cruel word, ‘Unknown!’ I insult the memory of no soldier, and I pray you pardon me!” Then, all suddenly, they stood with working faces, holding hard to one another’s hands, while their tears ran swiftly. They were too deeply moved to speak much then, and they drew down their veils that they might not attract attention.