The Spring had rounded into maturity, and Summer, lavish and wonderful and queenly, rested on her throne.
Why should there be war anywhere in the world? I asked.
And yet along a far frontier it flickered even now, sinister and relentless. A little war and, to me, a silent one—yet there it rose and fell and smouldered, and grew fierce, and in the grip of it two brave grey eyes had closed forever.
I heard the quiet, well-known voice.
"Tommy is not an ordinary boy," it said.
How we had smiled at the simple honest pride that this soldier had taken in his son.
I turned over and groaned, as I thought of it all—our parting in the old study—our promise—the half-comedy, half-responsibility of the situation.
And we had borne it so lightly, tossed for the boy, taken him more as an obstreperous plaything than a serious charge.
And now—well it matters not upon which of us the mantle of his legal guardian had fallen, nor upon whom lay the administration of his affairs—for we all had silently renewed our vows to one who was dead, and felt that there was something sacred in this mission, which lay upon the shoulders of each one of us.