“The Lusitania! They were na' saved, Mary. There's o'er a thousand gone. O'er a hundred Americans--hundreds of women and little bairns, Mary--like yours--Canadian mithers and bairns going to be near their brave lads--babies, Mary.” And the big fellow dropped his rough head on his arms and sobbed like a child. “Oh, Wallace; oh, Wallace!” whispered Mary, fairly wringing her hands; “it can't be! Over a thousand lost?” “Aye,” he cried suddenly, bringing his heavy fist down with a crash on the wicker table, “they drooned them like rats--God damn their bloody souls.” His face, crimson with rage and pity, worked uncontrollably. Mary covered her eyes with her hands. The Sparrow sat petrified. The little Elliston, terrified by their strange aspects, burst into loud wails. “There, darling; there, mother's boy,” crooned Mary soothingly, pressing her wet cheek to his. “Little bairns like that, Mary,” McEwan repeated brokenly. Mary gathered the child close into her arms. They sat in stunned horror. “Weel,” said McEwan at last, more quietly. “I'll be going o'er to enlist. I would ha' gone long sine, but that me poor girl would ha' thocht I'd desairted her. She doesna' need me now, and there's eno' left for the lad. Aye, this is me call. I was ay a slow man to wrath, Mary, but now if I can but kill one German before I die--” His great fist clenched again on the table. “Oh, don't, dear man, don't,” whispered Mary, with trembling lips, laying her cool hand over his. “You're right; you must go. But don't feel so terribly.” His grip relaxed; his big hand lay under hers quietly. “I could envy you, Wallace, being able to go. It's hard for us who have to stay here, just waiting. My poor sister has lost her husband already, and I don't know whether mine is alive or dead. And now you're going! Elliston's pet uncle!” She smiled at him affectionately through her tears. “I'll write you if I hear aught about the Foreign Legion, Mary,” he said, under his breath. She pressed his hand in gratitude. “When shall you go?” she asked. “By the next boat.” “Go by the American Line.” His jaw set grimly. “Aye, I will. They shall no torpedo me till I've had ae shot at them!” Mary rose. “Now, Wallace, you are to stay and lunch with us. You must let us make much of the latest family hero while we have him. Eh, Sparrow?” “Yes,” nodded Miss Mason emphatically, “I've hated the British ever since the Revolution--I and my parents and my grandparents--but I guess I'm with them, and those that fight for them, from now on.” II On the Monday following the sinking of the Lusitania, James Farraday received a letter from the American Hospital in Paris, written in French in a shaky hand, and signed Adolph Jensen.