“Hello, Tom. This is kind of you, lad,” and Mr. Sumption sprang up in hearty welcome, shaking Tom by the hand, and actually tipping the cat out of the armchair so that his visitor might be comfortably seated. Tom sat down and pulled out his pipe, and for some minutes they edged and skated about on general topics. Then the minister asked suddenly— “And how did you leave Jerry?” “Valiant”—certainly Jeremiah Meridian Sumption was a hardy, healthy little beggar. But Mr. Sumption was not deceived. “Valiant in body, maybe. But, Tom, I fear for his immortal soul.” Tom did not know wat to say. He had never before seen the minister without his glorious pretence of faith in his son. “It’s strange,” continued Mr. Sumption, “but from his birth that boy was seemingly marked out by Satan. Maybe it was the bad blood of the Rossarmescroes or Hearns; his mother was the sweetest, loveliest soul that ever slept under a bush; but there’s no denying that the Hearns’ blood is bad blood—roving, thieving, lusting, Satanic blood—and he’s got it in him, has my boy, more than he’s got the decent blood of my fathers.” “Has he written to you lately?” “Oh, he writes now and again. He’s fond of me. But he doesn’t sound happy. Then Bill Putland, when he came home to get married, he told me——” There was silence, and Tom fidgeted. “He told me as Jerry had got hold of a French girl in one of the towns—a bad lot, seemingly.” “He’ll get over it,” said Tom. “Reckon he can’t have much love fur such a critter.” “You knew of it too, then?” “Oh, we’ve all heard. He got First Field Punishment on her account, fur——” “Go on.” “Thur’s naun to say. I guess she’s bad all through. Some of these girls, they’re bits of stuff as you might say, but they’d never kip a man off his duty or git him into trouble on their account. Howsumdever, the wuss she is the sooner he’s lik to git shut of her.” Mr. Sumption groaned. “If only he could have married your sister Ivy!” “Ivy aun’t to blame.” “No—she’s not. I mustn’t be unjust. She treated him fair and square all through; he says it himself. But, Tom, it’s terrible to think that one human creature’s got the power to give another to Satan, and no blame attached to either.” “Maybe Jerry wur Satan’s before he wur Ivy’s,” said Tom sharply; then felt ashamed as he met the minister’s eyes with their tortured glow. “Maybe you’re right. This is Satan’s hour. He’s got us all for a season, and this War is his last kick before the Angel of the Lord chains him down in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. These are the days of which the Scripture saith, that unless the Lord should shorten them for the Elect’s sake, no man could be saved.”