The small boy knelt at his mother’s bedside, his little face against hers. Softly he kissed the pale cheek. The boy’s heart had become a man’s. He tried by touch and look to speak his love, his sympathy, his admiration. His mother smiled at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be free from pain. But presently the shouts and disorder of the departing townspeople reached her ears. She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her eyes. Passionately she strained her little one to her.
“How soon, little son, how soon?”
The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten the Germans. With a start he realized the danger. His new-born manhood took command. His father was at the front. He must protect his mother and tiny sister. His mother was too ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who had a wagon? He hurried to the window, but already even the stragglers were far down the road. All but three of the horses had been sent to the front. Those three were now out of sight with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood stupefied and helpless. The woman on the bed stirred.
“My son,” she called. “My son!”
He went to her.
“You must leave me and go on.”
“I can’t, mother.”
The woman drew the boy down beside her. She knew the struggle to come. How could she make him understand that his life and the baby’s meant more to her than her own? Lovingly she stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave, determined little face with very steady eyes.
“Son, dear, think of little sister. The Germans won’t bother with babies. There isn’t any milk. Mother hasn’t any for her. You must take baby in your strong little arms and run—run with her right out of this land into Holland.”