“My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home.”
“Jo?”
“Jo’s my boy. And he’s going to war. So I ran away. I had to see him. I had to see him go.”
She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street.
“Why, sure,” said Jo. “Of course you want to see him.” And then the crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He was trembling. The boys went marching by.
“There he is!” Emily shrilled, above the din. “There he is! There he is! There he—” And waved a futile little hand. It wasn’t so much a wave as a clutching. A clutching after something beyond her reach.
“Which one? Which one, Emily?”
“The handsome one. The handsome one. There!” Her voice quavered and died.
Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. “Point him out,” he commanded. “Show me.” And the next instant. “Never mind. I see him.”
Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds. Had picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was Emily’s boy. He was marching by, rather stiffy. He was nineteen, and fun-loving, and he had a girl, and he didn’t particularly want to go to France and—to go to France. But more than he had hated going, he had hated not to go. So he marched by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin stuck out just a little. Emily’s boy.