In the stress of indignation the vicar did not temper the wind to the shorn lamb. But the widow was less disconcerted than he felt he had a right to expect her to be. It was true that she listened with amazement, but far from being distressed, she met him with frank skepticism. It deepened an intense annoyance to find that she simply could not believe him. He gave her chapter and verse. But a categorical indictment called forth the remark that, “John was such a great scholar that ordinary people could not be expected to understand him.” Such a statement added fuel to the flame. Mr. Perry-Hennington did not pretend to scholarship himself, but he had such a keen and just appreciation of that quality in other people that these ignorant words aroused a pitying contempt. The mother’s attitude could only be taken as a desire to shield and uphold her son. “Well, Mrs. Smith,” said the vicar, rising from his chair, “I have to tell you that talk of this kind cannot be tolerated here. I very much hope you will speak to him on the matter.” “But who am I, vicar, that I should presume to speak to him?” “You are his mother.” “Of late I have begun to doubt whether I can be his mother.” The vicar looked at the widow in amazement. “Surely you know whether or not he is your son?” he said in stern surprise. “Yes, he is the child of my body, but I grow afraid to claim him as mine.” “For what reason?” “He is not as other men.” “I don’t understand you,” said the vicar with stern impatience. The widow looked at the vicar with a sudden light of ecstasy in her eyes. “I can only tell you,” she said, “that my husband was killed in battle months before a son was born to me. I can only tell you that I prayed and prayed continually that there might be no more wars. I can only tell you that one night an angel came to me and said that my prayer had been heard and would shortly be answered. I was told that I should live to see a war that would end all wars. And then my boy was born and I called him John Emanuel.”