"I don't agree with the people who say that khaki is not becoming," I said to his father after he had gone. "It must be becoming, because, since the war broke out, I've had a stronger and stronger impression every day that England is full of good-looking men." "I must see what Edward Brennan looks like in his khaki," I thought. But Edward was still waiting for his commission and so was in his ordinary clothes. But the thrill of the war was in him and it was a new Edward who was with us now and sat at the piano, and with his long fingers brought from the keys music that had a strange new meaning in it. "Edward, in a way I am sorry that you are going soldiering, too. It will be a great pity if anything happens to you--because, if you live, you'll be a great musician one day, when you wake up." "When I wake up?" "Yes. You're as cold as marble now. You want to thaw. But you're beginning to thaw already. What is that sad, sweet thing you've been playing over and over again this morning?" "Oh, don't you know? It's my setting of Roland's poem, 'L'Envoi.'" "Roland's poem? I didn't know he wrote any poems." "No. He's afraid to show them to you, because he says they're not good enough yet. But I liked this one so much that I couldn't help setting it to music." And he played the music over again, singing the words as he did so: "Only a turn of head, A good-bye lightly said, And you set out to tread Your manlier road. But our youth's paths once met, And think not we forget How great a brother's debt To you is owed. Sweep onward! and though fame Shall aureole your name, Remember whence you came In boyhood's days. And in Life's wider years Look back on hopes and fears, Sweetened with Memory's tears, And blame and praise." When he had finished I had a lump in my throat and a mist before my eyes, so that I could hardly see him as he sat at the piano. A few minutes later I thought I heard Little Yeogh Wough come in. I went to his room, but he was not there. There was a sheet from an exercise book on the floor, which the wind that came in at the open window had evidently blown off the table. I picked it up and looked at it, and saw that the writing on it was a poem which the Boy had copied from a recent number of the "Westminster Gazette." I read the lines through carelessly at first; but when I came to the third or fourth line I knew that if he was to get out to the Front and get killed this poem would haunt me always. I found myself murmuring the words over: