Up the long trail, resilient to their horses' feet, they cantered where the going was good, or picked their way with slow and careful tread where the rocky ridges jutted through the black soil.
They made no effort to repulse the thought that this was their last day together, nor did they seek to banish the fact of the war. With calm courage and hope they faced the facts of their environment, seeking to aid each other in readjusting their lives to those facts. They were resolutely cheerful. The day was not to be spoiled with tears and lamentations. Already each in his own place and time had made his sacrifice of a comradeship that was far dearer than life. The agony of that hour, each had borne in silence and alone. No shadow should fall across this sunny day.
By the side of the grave, in its little palisaded enclosure, they lingered, the father recalling the days of his earlier manhood, which had been brightened by a love whose fragrance he had cherished and shared with his son through their years together, Barry listening with reverent attention and tender sympathy.
“I had always planned that I too should be laid here, Barry,” said his father, as they prepared to take their departure, “but do you know, boy, this war has made many changes in me and this is one. It seems to me a very little thing where my body lies, if it be offered, as you were saying so beautifully yesterday, in sacrifice to our cause.”
Barry could only nod his head in reply. He was deeply moved.
“You are young, Barry,” said his father, noting his emotion, “and life is very dear to you, my boy.”
“No, dad, no! Not life,” said Barry brokenly. “Not life, only you, dad. I just want you, and, oh dad!” continued the boy, losing hold of himself and making no effort to check or hide the tears that ran down his face, “if one of us is to go in this war,—as is likely enough,—I only want that the other should be there at the time. It would be—terribly—lonely—dad—to go out myself—without you. Or to have you go out—alone.—We have always been together—and you have been—so very good to me, dad. I can't help this, dad,—I try—but I am not strong enough—I'm not holding back from the sacrifice, dad,” hurrying his words,—“No, no, not that, but perhaps you understand.”
For answer, his father put both his arms around his son, drew his head down to his breast, as if he had been a child.
“There, there, laddie,” he said, patting him on the shoulder, “I know, I know! Oh God, how I know. We have lived together very closely, without a shadow ever between us, and my prayer, since this war began, has been that in death, if it had to be, we might be together, and, Barry, somehow I believe God will give us that.”
“Good old dad, good old boy! What a brick you are! I couldn't help that, dad. Forgive me for being a baby, and spoiling the day—”