“Yes; I expect your mother will be glad, sir,” answered Geddes, touching up the horse. “And so will we all, I’m thinking.” They clattered down the road, and the high spirits of the wounded warrior rose. He asked a thousand questions, and insisted on taking the reins before they had gone far. It was dusk when they began to draw near Wodehurst; a sudden silence had fallen on Giles. The steward realized the reason. He coughed uncomfortably. They were passing within a hundred yards of Wodehurst Church. Suddenly he said in his deep burr: “We were all very sorry, sir, about Master Robin.” The eyes of the soldier softened; he murmured: “Poor old chap!” “I feel I ought to tell you, sir. It was a very queer thing. But one day that young Mr. Lawson—you know, the sculptor—about a week after it all happened, he must have got up at daybreak, I should say—nobody saw him do it. He must have gone down there to the churchyard with his tools, and what do you think? He carved something on the stone—on Mr. Robin’s stone.” Giles said quickly: “Carved! What?” “He carved just under the name and date, ‘He died for England.’” “‘He died for England!’ He carved that on Robin’s grave? What did he mean?” “I don’t know, sir.” “Really! What a rum chap he must be!” “We didn’t know what to do about it, sir. I saw it, and I didn’t like to tell your mother, and nobody likes to interfere with a tombstone, it seems profane-like. So there it is to this day.” “Thank you, Sam. I’ll think about it.” “Have you had much pain with your foot, sir?” Giles laughed, and flicked the horse. “Oh, nothing to write home about, Sam. I had a touch of fever, you know. I didn’t tell the mater. It was later on that I got this smash of my right foot. It happened at—I’ve forgotten the name; some damned little village on the Flemish border. I was lucky in a way, the shrapnel missed me. It was falling stonework that biffed up my foot. There was a building, a sort of school, I should think. It got blown to smithereens. It was rather a nasty mess-up. I was there for seven hours before they found me—Hullo! I see the mater standing at the gate.” The horse nearly bolted with the violence of Giles’s waving arms.... The dinner—all the dishes that Giles specially loved—was finished. With his arm round his mother’s waist and a cigar in the corner of his mouth, he led her into the warm comfort of the white-paneled drawing-room. “You won’t mind my smoking in here to-night, mater?” “My dear boy!” They sat in silence, watching the red glow of the log fire. Suddenly Giles said: “I say, mater, do you know an awfully rum thing Geddes told me?” His mother looked up. “I think perhaps I know. Do you mean in the—cemetery?” Giles nodded, puffing at his cigar in little nervous inhalations. “Yes. I knew. I saw it, of course. I’ve sat and wondered.” “Such a rum thing to do! What do you think we ought to do about it, mater?”