“She doesn’t remember. ‘Never will remember,’ the doctors say,” repeated my friend, and laid a comforting hand on my arm. “Of course you couldn’t know,” she said; very earnestly she added: “You see how completely life has finished with me? Well, let me tell you something: If the Huns, and their ideas, had been allowed to dominate the world, it wouldn’t have been a tolerable place for any right-thinking, self-respecting, _decent_ man to live in. And since the only way to remove that menace was through the sacrifice of thousands of boys like our sons ... I, who stand bereft, to-day, tell you that I am glad that things are as they are.” I could not speak. At the doorway she bade me an affectionate good-by. “My husband will be very sorry to have missed you. Don’t forget that you’ll always find us here, with a welcome for you,” she said. With a wave of her hand she indicated the wide landscape sloping away into far blue hills. “At least we have saved this, _untouched_,” she added bleakly. “I’ll be back,” I promised, and turned away to hide the blurring tears. * * * * * Saved, untouched; clean hands; a clear conscience; the right to look any man, or woman, in the eyes. A green country with violet-shadowed valleys dreaming in the sunshine; the fairylike chime of cuckoo’s notes calling--calling--calling; woods, and tree tops outlined against the wide sky; lazy cows knee deep in the reeds bordering a silvery brook; homeward-faring pigeons on gleaming wings; the drowsy note of distant church bells; the hum of bees; pearly mists of rain; the ripple of wind over wheat; the blackbirds’ flutelike call; wide-eyed daisies; darting swallows, and the scent of meadow-sweet: England. And yet--and yet (oh, broken hopes and dreams) the lonely days that stretch ahead! _The quiet years._ _Young’s Magazine_ THE CRYSTAL FLASK BY PAUL ROSENWEY THE CRYSTAL FLASK[13] By PAUL ROSENWEY Young Gwilliam, fresh and brown from his two years in the wilds, and with two inches added to his chest measure, hurried to the club and searched for Drysdale. He found his Petronius sitting just as he had left him, in the accustomed well-cushioned chair, in the accustomed corner, on his face the accustomed quiet, faintly amused smile. Gwillam drew up a chair opposite; the necessary ceremonies were performed, and then they plunged into one of those long garrulous gossips, which they both liked so well. “I saw Craig, to-day,” said young Gwillam, after a time. He paused. “Yes,” said Drysdale, non-committally. “He looked badly,” added Gwillam suggestively. Drysdale made no answer. Gwillam leaned forward. “Tell me what has happened,” he urged. “I liked Craig; he was always a good sort of fellow. And he is young too--not much older than myself; but to-day he looked like an old man--thin, gray, stooped--a wreck.”