His mother saw that the old light had come back to his eyes, and she shuddered.
The next morning when Madge came downstairs she saw her sitting in the hall, with her head bent down, her son standing over her with a paper in his hands.
“Madge! Madge!” cried the mother, “you will tell him to stay; he is going to leave us, but you will tell him to stay. He will stay if you implore of him.”
“Yes,” said he, “I will stay if Madge asks me; but she will not ask me.”
“You will ask him—you will implore of him to stay, Madge, my daughter!” cried Mrs Harland.
There was a long silence. The girl had become deathly pale. She stood at her chair at the table. She did not speak.
“Why are you silent?—why are you dumb?” cried the mother. “Will you see him go forth to die, as all the others of his family have done in the past? Cannot you understand what has happened? Oh! you have only just come down. You have not heard the news: the last of the Reserves have been called out, and volunteers are being called on from the Militia!”
“And I have volunteered,” said Julian in a low voice.
She was still deathly pale. Her hands grasped the carved back of the chair. She did not speak.
“Dear Madge, you will tell him?” began Mrs Harland.