A SON AT THE FRONT
used to earn a little money doing fashion-articles, but of course there's no market for that now, and I don't see how the pair can live. They have a little boy, and there's an infirm mother, and they're waiting to get married till the girl can find a job."
"Good Lord!" Campton groaned, with a sudden vision of the countless little trades and traffics arrested by the war, and all the industrious thousands reduced to querulous pauperism or slow death.
"How do they live—all these people?"
"They don't—always. I could tell you———"
"Don't, for God's sake; I can't stand it." Campton drew out the cheque. "Here: this is what I've got for the Davrils."
"Good Lord!" said Boylston, staring with round eyes.
"It will pull them through, anyhow, won't it?" Campton triumphed.
"Well———" said Boylston. "It will if you'll endorse it," he added, smiling. Campton laughed and took up a pen.
A day or two later Campton, returning home one afternoon, overtook a small black-veiled figure with a limp like his own. He guessed at once that it was the lame Davril girl, come to thank him; and his dislike of such ceremonies caused him to glance about for a way of escape. But as he did so the girl turned with a smile
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