“A real white bath in a bathroom!...” Mrs. Beatup was regaining confidence in her daughter. “You’ll be gitting too grand fur us here. They say as once you start taaking baths it’s like taaking drams, and you can’t git shut of it. I’ll have to see if I can’t fix fur you to have the wash-tub now and agaun.... Oh, you’ll find us plain folks here.” Nell did not speak; she was stooping over the fire and her spread hands shook a little. “Reckon she’s low,” said Mrs. Beatup in a hoarse whisper to Tom; “she’s said good-bye to her man, and she’s vrothering lest he never comes back. It’s always ‘good-bye’ fur her lik fur the rest of us.” “It’ll have to be ‘good-bye’ fur me now, mother. I must be gitting hoame.” Mrs. Beatup stood up sorrowfully— “Oh, Tom, I’ve a feeling as you’ll never come back.” “You’ve always had that feeling, mother—and I’ve always come back, surelye.” “But maybe I’m right this time. They say as the Germans ull maake a gurt push this Spring, and I reckon they’re sure to kill you if they can.” “Reckon they’ll have a try—and if my number’s up I mun go, and if it aun’t, I mun stay. So thur’s no sense in vrothering.” “You spik very differunt, Tom, from when you wur a lad.” “I feel different, you can bet.” “And yit it’s scarce two year agone since you wur naun but a boy, and now you’re naun of a boy that I can see—you’re a married man and the father of a child.” “And whur’s the harm of it?—you needn’t look so glum.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he kissed his father— “Good-bye, dad—you’ll be climbing fences afore I’m back, and—” in a friendly whisper, “you kip away from that old Volunteer. See wot gitting shut of the drink has maade you—you’re twice the man, fur all your leg. You kip on wud it, faather. You’ve got a start like—it ought to be easy now.” “Kip on wud wot, my lad?—wud my leg, or the drink, or doing wudout the drink? You doan’t spik clear and expressly—reckon you’re gitting just a brutal soldier.” “Maybe I am, Faather.” “And you’ll never come raound me to kip teetotal when I think of them Russians—all got shut of drink the fust month of the war, and then went and bust up and ruined us. It’s bin proved as the war ull go on a dunnamany years on account of them valiant teetotallers. If we British all turn teetotal too, reckon as the war ull last fur ever.” “Reckon you’ve got the brains!” said Tom, but not in quite the same tone as he used to say it. He said good-bye to Harry and Zacky, and to Nell—with a pat on her shoulder and a “Doan’t you fret, my dear—he’ll come back.” Mrs. Beatup went down with him to the end of the drive. She looked on this as her privilege, and also had some hazy idea about giving him good advice. All she could think of on the present occasion was to “Kip sober and finish the war.” “Wish that being my faather’s son maade it as easy to do one as it does to do t’other. Now doan’t you start crying, fur I tell you I’ll be back before you scarce know I’m a-gone.”