home of the Reformation, the home of religious
liberty. Was it not Luther who, standing before the greatest tribunal
the world had ever known, and having to choose between conscience and
death, cried out:

"It is neither safe nor wise for any man to do aught against his own
conscience. Here stand I; I can do no other, God help me!"?

No, no, he simply could not. Though he were boycotted, scorned, held
up to derision, he could not change. He must be true to his conscience.

But Nancy!

Yes, he must lose Nancy, and the very thought of it made him groan in
agony; but he must sacrifice his love rather than his Lord.

He heard his mother come in, and, although he dreaded her coming, he
steeled his heart to tell her the truth.

She, too, was full of war news; it had been the common talk at the
houses where she had called.

"Bob," she said; and her face was pale, her lips tremulous. "Bob, the
thought of it is terrible; but you'll have to go. It is your
duty--your country needs you."

She, too, had been fighting a hard battle. A battle between love for
her only boy, fear for his safety, and what she believed her duty to
her country. The struggle had been hard, but she had determined to
make her sacrifice.

"No, I'm not going, mother."

"What, you are going to allow those Germans to crush France and
Belgium, and finally conquer and crush us, and never lift a hand in
defence?"

Bob was silent.

"You can't mean it, my dear. It's like tearing my heartstrings out to
let you go, but you must. I know; you are thinking of me; but I shall
be all right. You must do your duty."

"Would _he_ have me go?" and Bob nodded towards his father's picture.

"Your father was a Quaker," she said.

"He was a Christian," and Bob's voice was very low. "That was why he
hated war, and denounced it. That is why I am not going to fight."

"Then every brave, true Englishman will despise you."

"That's nothing," replied Bob; and his voice sounded as though he were
weary.

"And what of Nancy?"

"Yes, what of her?"

"I know what she feels, I know that----"

"Mother," Bob interrupted, "I can't bear any more just now; and it's no
use talking, my mind's made up."

He left the room as he spoke, and soon after, left the house. He did
not have any dinner that night, but spent hours tramping the wild moors
at the back of the house. The next day he was in misery. Again and
again he reviewed the situation, but he could not