didn't belittle his experience beside that of her son, but she did differentiate sharply. "A bit of lead through 'is neck it was, an' a shell splinter in 'is chest. It's bent 'im 'arf double, it 'as. If 'e was 'ere you would see for yourself, sir. But 'e 'asn't the 'eart for such things no more, sir."
The massed bands of the Brigade of Guards had begun playing Schubert's "Ave Maria," and we listened involuntarily until it was over, then she reassured me, "But I alwus come, sir, for the family like. I kin 'old back better'n they m'ybe."
Something in her voice made me turn. Tears were rolling down her weathered face, but she looked at me steadily. In the next moment she seemed to be pleading in extenuation of them: "'E was me only son—at Wipers, sir" (I reverence the way they pronounce Ypres!). "Well, I remember the day 'e kissed me good-by at Victoria, sir—'ow 'e said, 'I'll be back, mumsie—'ave a po'k pie.' 'Is larst words to 'is mother, sir—an' 'e—me bybie—" Her voice trailed off amidst the burst of brass of another Royal band which heralded the coming of the King.
The coming of the King! It struck another deep chord that saved me from joining that mother in downright tears. The King with his sons had come on foot all the way from Buckingham Palace. His majesty and their highnesses laid wreaths beside all the other flowery me-
