For the first time since they had left home on the wild journey the childish smile left the boy’s face. His war picnic had ended in grim tragedy after all. He couldn’t believe it at first and the tears came in spite of his struggle to hold them back. In vain he shook his mother. She lay flat on her back now, her chalk-white face upturned in the sun.
The boy was still crying when he felt the nudge of another arm against his. He lifted his tear-stained face and saw Sausage’s smoke-begrimmed cheeks and the look of dumb anguish in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” the boy sobbed.
“My mamma’s killed”—was the low answer.
The swarthy face of the little Italian pressed close to the fair German, and their arms stole round each other’s neck.
Angela waking from her faint found them thus and gathered them into her arms.
She was still soothing their fears when Tommaso
