"You'll be back before you know," she told him, cooing, comforting, laughing through her tears. "They all say it'll be over soon, whatever else. A great war like this ca'an't go on. Too much of it, like." "Please God, so," said Ernie. "It's going to be the beginning of a new life for me--for you--for all of us, as Joe says.... God keep you till we meet again." Then he walked swiftly down the street with swimming eyes. The neighbours, who were all fond of Ern, stood in their doors and watched him solemnly. He was going into _IT_. Like as not they would never see him again. Many of the women had handkerchieves to their lips, as they watched, and over the handkerchieves their eyes showed awed. Some turned away, hands to their hearts. Others munched their aprons and wept. A mysterious rumour in the deeps of them warned them of the horror that had him and them and the world in its grip. They could not understand, but they could feel. And this working man with the uncertain mouth and blurred eyes--this man whose walk, whose speech, whose coal-grimed face, and the smell even of his tarry clothes, was so familiar to them--was the symbol of it all. A big navvy came sheepishly out of the last house in the row and stopped him. It was the man who had insulted Ernie in the _Star_ six months before. "I ask your pardon, Ern," he said. "I didn't mean what I said." Ern shook hands. Years before the two had been at school together under Mr. Pigott. "It wasn't you, Reube," he said. "I knaw who spread the dung you rolled in." "I shan't be caught again," replied the other. "That's a sure thing." Ern jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Keep an eye to her!" he whispered. "You may lay to it," the big man answered. At the corner a young girl of perhaps fifteen ran out suddenly, flung herself into his arms, kissed him, with blind face lifted to the sky, and was gone again. At the bottom of Borough Lane a troop of Boy-Scouts in slouch hats, knickers, and with staves, drawn up in order, saluted. A tiny boy in his mother's arms blew him shy kisses. Just outside the yard of the Transport Company his mates, who had been waiting him, came out and shook him by the hand. Most were very quiet. As he passed on the man among them he disliked most called for three cheers. A ragged noise was raised behind him. At the _Star_ corner a beery patriot, wearing the South African medals, mug to his lips, hailed him. "Gor bless the Hammer-men!" he cried. "Gor bless the old ridgiment!" and tried to lure Ernie into the familiar bar-parlour. "Not me, thank ye!" cried Ernie stoutly. "This ain't a beano, my boy! This is War!" As he rounded the corner he glanced up at the sturdy old church with its tiny extinguisher spire, standing on the Kneb behind him, four-square to the centuries, the symbol of the rough and ready England which at that moment was passing away, with its glories and its shames, into the limbo of history.