In the year that Mikey had been gone, Katie had become more and more proud of him. She was confident he would return as a "gineral." And Katie had a right to be proud. Mikey had done wonders. His strength, his wit, his love of a fight, his proud conviction that he'd gone in for Mr. Dick, all had made him a wonderful soldier. He had been advanced, he was Lieutenant Flaherty by the spring of 1916, and Katie had a picture of him in her pocket, familiar, indeed, to most of Sabinsport because Ralph had printed it in the _Argus_. It had been copied in a city Sunday supplement, much to the joy of Katie and the pride of the Boys' Club and the War Board. At the latter place, in fact, it had been given a place of honor on the wall opposite King Albert and Papa Joffre, and underneath in big letters, printed carefully by Captain Billy, were the words, "Lieut. Michael Flaherty, Sabinsport, U.S.A." And now he was dead. How, Dick asked himself, could he go to the woman whose only son had given his life in doing his work? How could he console poor Katie--he, the cause of her grief? An indirect and unwilling cause, to be sure, but would Mikey have found his way to France without him? he wondered now, as he sat miserably looking at the yellow sheet in his hand. Katie had long ago worked it out that it was the martial soul of the boy that had led him away. "He'd a gone without you, Mr. Dick. He's a born soldier. He'd a gone wherever the war was in the world if he'd never seen you." Would she still think so when he told her? He gathered himself up finally and went about his morning toilet. Katie came at seven. His breakfast was always served at the stroke of eight. He had only begun his dressing when he heard the distant click of her door. He could hear her singing when, later, he gathered his resolution and went to the kitchen. She was at the stove frying his bacon--she turned a red and happy face to him. "What's the matter, Mr. Dick, comin' in at this time of--" She stopped--her frying pan high over the stove. "Is it Mikey you've news of?" The dread anguish in the voice after the hearty cheer of a moment before hurt Dick like a knife. "Katie," he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder--"my poor Katie!" and the tears came. "He's hurt! He's dead!" "He's dead, Katie." She stood stock still, and slowly a look of fierce hatred came into her face. "God pity the Germans that fought him. It don't say how many he killed?" Then, dropping frying pan and bacon, and throwing her apron over her head, she fell into a chair and rocking back and forth, cried in her sorrow: "O Mikey, Mikey! What's the use of it all? What's the use of it all?" As Dick recalled the miserable hour later, there was one strong and uplifting thing in it--the woman's brave efforts to control her grief and attend to his morning wants.