"Somewhere ahead," he said dreamily, "in months or years to come, I see
a vision of a woman in black, coming from church alone, and her head is
bowed with grief----" He passed his hand over his brow with a weary,
querulous movement, and shadows appeared beneath his eyes.
"Where--where are the two sons? Not dead?"
He smiled wistfully and replaced his hand in my arm.
"The picture we saw just now," he said, "is my conception of
England--the real England of noble mothers and noble sons. But
something tells me that the woman in black is England too, mourning for
her sons who will never--come back."
With an effort he squared his shoulders and forced a laugh from his
lips.
"Pest!" he cried, "I should be burned as a witch. Heigho! it's a pretty
go when one has to turn lugubrious on a Christmas morning. Cheer us up,
Pest. Tell me about yourself--whom you are in love with, and your
dreams for the days to come. Let's blow bubbles--shall we?--and see
what fresh beauties we can find in this charming adventure called
life!"
And I laughed with him, exchanging philosophies light as air; but the
chimes that rang out all about us had still another meaning. There was
a warning in the pealing discords that broke on the quiet air; there
was a requiem in the notes that lingered like an echo, then murmured
ominously to silence.
I shivered as though I had a chill, for something of Norman's spirit
had seized me, and I felt that both the warning and the requiem
were--for England.