ome without victory; we
were all agreed on that. But we all hoped that the New Year would
bring both--the new year of 1917. And so I left him at the corner of
Southhampton Row, and went back to my hotel alone. It was about
midnight, a little before, I think, when I got in, and one of the
porters had a message for me.

"Sir Thomas Lipton rang you up," he said, "and wants you to speak
with him when you come in."

I rang him up at home directly.

"Happy New Year, when it comes, Harry!" he said. He spoke in the same
bluff, hearty way he always did. He fairly shouted in my ear. "When
did you hear from the boy? Are you and Mrs. Lauder well?"

"Aye, fine," I told him. And I told him my last news of John.

"Splendid!" he said. "Well, it was just to talk to you a minute that
I rang you up, Harry. Good-night--Happy New Year again."

I went to bed then. But I did not go to sleep for a long time. It was
New Year's, and I lay thinking of my boy, and wondering what this
year would bring him. It was early in the morning before I slept. And
it seemed to me that I had scarce been asleep at all when there came
a pounding at the door, loud enough to rouse the heaviest sleeper
there ever was.

My heart almost stopped. There must be something serious indeed for
them to be rousing me so early. I rushed to the door, and there was a
porter, holding out a telegram. I took it and tore it open. And I
knew why I had felt as I had the day before. I shall never forget
what I read:

"Captain John Lauder killed in action, December 28. Official.
War Office."

It had gone to Mrs. Lauder at Dunoon first, and she had sent it on to
me. That was all it said. I knew nothing of how my boy had died, or
where--save that it was for his country.

But later I learned that when Sir Thomas Lipton had rung me up he had
intended to condole with me. He had heard on Saturday of my boy's
death. But when he spoke to me, and understood at once, from the tone
of my voice, that I did not know, he had not been able to go on. His
heart was too tender to make it possible for him to be the one to
give me that blow--the heaviest that ever befell me.

CHAPTER VIII

It was on Monday morning, January the first, 1917, that I learned of
my boy's death. And he had been killed the Thursday before! He had
been dead four days before I knew it! And yet--I had known. Let no
one ever tell me again that there is nothing in presentiment. Why
else had I been so sad and unea