ONE YOUNG MAN RECEIVES A LETTER

George’s stepfather wrote to Sydney Baxter as soon as he received the heartbroken letter telling of his chum’s death.  To this letter from the father I devote a chapter.  It must stand alone.  In all the glorious annals of the war it is, to me at least, unique.  Nothing that I can write can add to its pathos or increase its heroism or enhance its beauty.  I leave it to speak for itself—­this letter which will live, I believe, as the most beautiful expression of a stepfather’s love and devotion in our language.

     “MY DEAR LADDIE,

“Our hearts are breaking for you, and our thoughts and prayers are much taken up on your behalf.  All along we have united you and George in our petitions, and all that was sent addressed to George was meant for Syd and George.  We never thought of you separately at all, but just as sure as you shared all in common, so our thoughts were for you both.

“George’s call home was undreamt of by me.  It was dreaded by his mother, but I hardly think the possibility of such a thing had entered into the minds of his sisters or brothers.  I cannot explain it, but I never expected him to give his life out there.  I knew many were praying for you both, and must have rested my mind completely on the expectation of our prayers being answered in the way we wanted.  It was not to be.  And at the first look one feels rebellious in that God permitted his death to take place.  But who am I, and of what account am I, in the scheme of things?  Can I understand the infinite thought of God?  Can I see the end, as He can?  I can only bow my head, with a heart full of sadness, and accept the ruling of my God; and hope for a reunion with our dear lad when my call shall come.  It was something for me, a stepfather, to have had the fathering of such a dear lad.  It is a heart-break to me that that is ended, and never more in reality (though I expect often in mind) shall I hear his voice or feel his kiss, or see the dear lad, as he used in these later years to do, standing in front of the fireplace talking down at me on the chair or listening to me talking up at him on Saturday nights.  You can picture him, I have no doubt.  Now all is over, his place in the home is empty—­but in the heart that can never be.  His Mum (as he always called his mother) is heart-broken, but very brave.  The dear woman is worthy to have had such a son, and that is praise indeed.  If she was prouder of one of the children or made any distinction between them, George held that place, and though I think we were all conscious of it, none of us grudged it him.  And that is the greatest tribute that could be paid to him—­when you think it out.  We are all jealous of Mother’s love.  We all want it, and if one is first he must be good indeed if it is not a cause of trouble.  And that it never was in his case.

“Now, my dear lad, I have a proposal