Another mother of one of the Brighton boys was of the same heroic mold as the brave French woman.  Joe Little’s widowed mother took the news calmly.  She had felt it would come one day.  Her mind went back, as it had done frequently after the boys had commenced their work at the airdrome, to the days of the short Spanish-American war.  Joe’s father, impulsive, had joined the colors at the first call and gone to Cuba.  Mrs. Little’s only brother, very dear to her, had volunteered, too, and was in the First Expedition to the Philippines.  Neither had come back.  War had taken so much from Mrs. Little, and left her so hard a bed to lie upon, that it seemed cruel that she should be asked for still more sacrifice.  She had fought it all out in the quiet of her bedchamber, where, night after night, she had prayed long and earnestly for guidance and strength and courage.

Well Mrs. Little knew that if she told Joe the truth about her finances and what his going would mean to her she could doubtless influence him to stay and care for her.  There were many others who could be sent, who did not, could not, mean so much to those they would leave behind.  Joe was all she had.  She was growing old, and her little store of money was dwindling surely if slowly.

By the time Joe came home that night and told her of what the colonel had said, Mrs. Little had steeled herself to give her boy to her country and humanity.  It cost her dear, but she set her teeth and placed her offering on the altar of what she had come to believe her duty, with a brave, patient smile in her eyes, in spite of the clutch at her heartstrings.

“Splendid, Joe,” she said with what enthusiasm she could put into her words.  “You are glad, aren’t you, dear?”

“Not glad, mother darling.”  Joe placed his arm around her slender waist tenderly.  They were very close, these two.  “Not glad.  That does not express it.  I couldn’t be glad to go away and leave you.  Though, for that matter, you will be all right.  I feel sort of an inspiration I can’t explain.  It is all so big.  It seems so necessary that I should go, and I felt that I should be so utterly out of it if I did not go one day.  When the colonel spoke that way it seemed like a sort of fulfillment of something that had to come, whether or no.  I might call it fate, but that does not describe it quite.  It is bigger than fate.  It sounds silly, mother, but it is a sort of exaltation, in a sense.  It had to come, and I feel it is almost a holy thing to me.”

Joe’s mother put her two hands on his shoulders.  Her eyes were moist, but her courage never faltered.  “Joe, such boys as you are could not stay at home.  You are your father’s son, dear.”

“And my mother’s,” said Joe soberly.  “It is from you I get the strength to want to do my duty, and I will not forget it when the strain comes.  I will always have your face in front of me to lead me on, mother.”