There was a thrush singing, and a robin
came close to the window, hopped on the ledge, and looked in.
'Ripping!' said Desmond softly. 'There were jolly mornings in France
too.' Then his clear brow contracted. Aubrey stooped to him.
'Any news?' said the blanched lips.
'None yet, old man. We shan't get the papers till eight.'
'What's the date?'
'March 18th.'
Desmond gave a long sigh.
'I would have liked to be in it!'
'In the big battle?' Aubrey's lip trembled. 'You have done your bit,
old man.'
'But how is it going to _end_?' said the boy, moving his head
restlessly. 'Shall we win?--or they? I shall live as long as ever I
can--just to know. I feel quite jolly now--isn't it strange?--and
yet I made the doctors tell me--'
He turned a bright look on his brother, and his voice grew
stronger. 'I had such a queer dream last night, Aubrey,--about
you--and that friend of yours--do you remember?--you used to bring
him down--to stay here--when Pam and I were little--Freddy Vivian--'
The boy looking out into the woods and the morning did not see the
change--the spasm--in his brother's face.
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