“Mabel is a silly little goose,” said Mr. Murray angrily. “No, never fear, my Sweetheart, they won't expect me to go. I am far too old, you know. Now, then, off you go to sleep. Do you know, the moon is shining so bright outside that the little birds can't sleep. I just heard a little bird as we were coming home cheeping away just like, you. I believe she could not go to sleep.” But the child could not forget that terrible word which had rooted itself in her heart. “But you will not go; promise me, Daddy, you will not go.” “Why, Sweetheart, listen to me.” “But promise me, Daddy, promise me.” The little thing clung to him in a paroxysm of grief and terror. “Listen, Isabel dear,” said her father quietly. “You know I always tell you the truth. Now listen to me. I promise you I won't go until you send me yourself. Will that do?” “Yes, Daddy,” she said, and drew a long breath. “Now I am so tired, Daddy.” Even as she spoke the little form relaxed in his arms and in a moment she was fast asleep. As her father held her there the Spectre drew near again, but for the moment his courage failed him and he dared not look. CHAPTER XXII THE TUCK OF DRUM In the midst of her busy summer work in field and factory, on lake and river, in mine and forest, on an August day of 1914, Canada was stricken to the heart. Out of a blue summer sky a bolt as of death smote her, dazed and dumb, gasping to God her horror and amaze. Without word of warning, without thought of preparation, without sense of desert, War, brutal, bloody, devilish War, was thrust into her life by that power whose business in the world, whose confidence and glory, was war.