"'There's no--friend like a mother,'" stammered young Hugh, and tears fell unashamed. His mother had not seen the boy cry since he was ten years old. He went on. "Dad didn't say a word, because he wouldn't spoil your birthday, but the way he dodged--my knee--" He laughed miserably and swabbed away tears with the corner of his pajama coat. "I wish I had a hanky," he complained. The woman dried the tear-stained cheeks hastily with her own. "Dad's got it in for me," said Hugh. "I can tell. He'll make me go--now. He--he suspects I went skating that day hoping I'd fall--and--I know it wasn't so darned unlikely. Yes--I did--not the first time--when I smashed it; that was entirely--luck." He laughed again, a laugh that was a sob. "And now--oh, Mummy, have I _got_ to go into that nightmare? I hate it so. I am--I _am_--afraid. If--if I should be there and--and sent into some terrible job--shell-fire--dirt--smells--dead men and horses--filth--torture--mother, I might run. I don't feel sure. I can't trust Hugh Langdon--he might run. Anyhow"--the lad sprang to his feet and stood before her--"anyhow--why am _I_ bound to get into this? I didn't start it. My Government didn't. And I've everything, _everything_ before me here. I didn't tell you, but that editor said--he said I'd be one of the great writers of the time. And I love it, I love that job. I can do it. I can be useful, and successful, and an honor to you--and happy, oh, so happy! If only I may do as Arnold said, be one of America's big writers! I've everything to gain here; I've everything to lose there." He stopped and stood before her like a flame. And from the woman's mouth came words which she had not thought, as if other than herself spoke them. "'What shall it profit a man,'" she spoke, "'if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'" At that the boy plunged on his knees in collapse and sobbed miserably. "Mother, mother! Don't be merciless." "Merciless! My own laddie!" There seemed no words possible as she stroked the blond head with shaking hand. "Hughie," she spoke when his sobs quieted. "Hughie, it's not how you feel; it's what you do. I believe thousands and thousands of boys in this unwarlike country have gone--are going--through suffering like yours." Hugh lifted wet eyes. "Do you think so, Mummy?" "Indeed I do. Indeed I do. And I pray that the women who love them are--faithful. For I know, I _know_ that if a woman lets her men, if a mother let her sons fail their country now, those sons will never forgive her. It's your honor I'm holding to, Hughie, against human instinct. After this war, those to be pitied won't be the sonless mothers or the crippled soldiers--it will be the men of fighting age who have not fought. Even if they could not, even at the best, they will spend the rest of their lives explaining why."