But her heart-felt sympathy made too great a draft on his emotional nature. It silenced his voice and flooded his eyes. So she drew her chair up beside him, and he laid his head in her lap as he had used to do when he was a very little boy, and wept out his disappointment and grief. And as he lay there a new thought came to him. Swiftly as a whirlwind forms and sweeps across the land, it took on form and motion and swept through the channels of his mind. He sprang to his feet, dashed the tears from his face, and looked down on his mother with a countenance transformed. "Mother!" he exclaimed, "I have an idea!" "Why, Pen; how you startled me! What is it?" "I have an idea, mother. I'm going to--" He paused and looked away from her. "Going to what, Pen?" He did not reply at once, but after a moment he said: "I'll tell you later, mother, after it's all worked out and I'm sure of it. I'm not going to bring home to you any more disappointments." CHAPTER X It was three days later that Pen came home one evening, alert of step, bright-eyed, his countenance beaming with satisfaction and delight. "Well, mother," he cried as he entered the house; "it's settled. I'm going!" She looked up in surprise and alarm. "What's settled, Pen? Where are you going?" "I'm going to war." She dropped the work at which she had been busy and sat down weakly in a chair by her dining-room table. He went to her and laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder. "Pardon me, mother!" he continued, "I didn't mean to frighten you, but I'm so happy over it." She looked up into his face. "To war, Pen? What war?" "The big war, mother. The war in France. Do you remember the other night when I told you I had an idea?" "Yes, I remember." "Well, that was it. It occurred to me, then, that if I couldn't fight for my own country, under my own flag, I would fight for those other countries, under their flags. They are making a desperate and a splendid war to uphold the rights of civilized nations." He stood there, erect, manly, resolute, his face lighted with the glow of his enthusiasm. She could but admire him, even though her heart sank under the weight of his announced purpose. Many times, of an evening, they had talked together of the mighty conflict in Europe. From the very first Pen's sympathies had been with France and her Allies. He could not get over denouncing the swiftness and savagery of the raid into Belgium, the wanton destruction of her cities and her monuments of art, the hardships and brutalities imposed upon her people. The Bryce report, with its details of outrage and crime, stirred his nature to its depths. The tragedy of the _Lusitania_ filled him with indignation and horror. Now, suddenly, had come the desire and the opportunity to fight with those peoples who were struggling to save their ideals from destruction.