They had tea, and afterwards the boy wrote a long letter, in which he said a great deal more to the mother who received it than was actually written on the paper. The Lonely One sat for some time in front of the fire, and finally scribbled a card. It was addressed to some place in the wilds of Scotland, and it bore the one word “Thanks.” After dinner they sat and smoked awhile. The Lonely One knew much of the life-history of the other by now. It had burst from the boy, and the Lonely One had listened sympathetically and with little comment, and had liked to hear it. It is good to hear a boy talk about his mother. “What shall we do now?” “We might go to the cinema show; it used to be fairly good.” “Right-oh! I say”--a little diffidently--“last time I was on leave, the first time too, I came back with some fellows who were pretty--well--pretty hot stuff. They wanted me to go to a--to a place up in the town, and I didn’t go. I think they thought I was an awful blighter, don’t-you-know, but----” “What that kind of chap thinks doesn’t matter in the least, old man,” interposed the other. “You were at Cambridge, weren’t you?” “Yes.” “Well, you may have heard the old tag? Besides, I don’t think--some one--somebody ...” he hesitated and stopped. The youngster flushed. “Yes, I know,” he said softly. They boarded the train together, and shared the discomforts of the long tedious journey. Every hour, or less, the train stopped, for many minutes, and then with a creak and a groan wandered on again like an ancient snail. Rain beat on the window-panes, and the compartment was as drafty as a sieve. It was not until the small hours that they reached their destination, a cold, bleak, storm-swept platform. “This is where we say good-bye,” the youngster began regretfully, “thanks awf’ly for----” “Rot,” broke in the other brusquely, taking the proffered hand in his big brown one. “Best of luck, old man, and don’t forget to drop me a card.” “A nice boy, a _very_ nice boy,” he mused, as he climbed into the military bus, and was rattled off, back to the mud and slush and dreariness of it all. “Have a good time?” asked the Transport Officer the next morning, as the Lonely One struggled into his fighting kit, preparatory to rejoining the battalion in the trenches. “Yes, thanks. By the way, any mail for me?” “One letter. Here you are.” He took it, looked an instant at the handwriting, and thrust it inside his tunic. The postmark was the same as that of the wire he had received at the port of embarkation. THREE RED ROSES