IN October, 1916, I returned from Liverpool (where I had been
working), for a few weeks holiday at my own home. Early one morning
(between two and three o'clock), I was awakened by hearing singing in
my bedroom. I knew the voice quite well—it was that of a young man
who had been brought up in the same street as I, and had been
educated at the same school. He was singing a verse of a hymn, quite
loud and heartily. I got no more sleep that night and was very upset,
as I knew this boy was fighting in France. A few days after, I met
his sister and she told me they had had word to say that her brother
was missing. A couple of weeks went by and word came to say that he
had been killed.