whisky in his hand which his father had just
poured out. There on the bed sat his great gaunt
brother in blue, one trouser leg rolled up to his
hairy knee. There on a strip of carpet in front of
the bed knelt his mother with a strange white face,
soaking bloody rags away from evil-looking sores
on that precious foot. There by the cupboard
stood Mary, tearing something white into band-
ages, with the children huddled around her, awed
by the sight of their mother.

Andy saw all that the moment that Wully, tak-
ing up one of the children's old jokes, cried out to
him, in a voice that belied his foot, a greeting that
the young ones had loved deriding.

"Lang may your lum reek, Andy!" There was-
n't really anything wrong with Wully, it seemed.
That wasn't a wound, he affirmed. It was only a
scratch. He really couldn't say just how it had
happened. It wasn't anything! It might not be
anything to a soldier, but to his mother it was the
mark of imminent death for her dearest son. She
began rubbing it gently with lambs' fat. Wully,
bethinking himself, pulled from a pocket a paper-
wrapped bundle of sweeties for the children, who
saw such things but seldom. They were intent
upon the contents of that, and the stranger was talk-
ing to his father, when Andy, still standing awk-
wardly in the door, saw a thing happen which was
a landmark in his understanding. He saw his
mother, who had made fast the last bandage, and
was carefully pulling down the trouser leg, sud-

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