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Updated: June 29, 2025
"You have seen Stanton?" the President asked. "Yes. He wouldn't listen. He swore I shouldn't have him." The hazel-grey eyes gazed thoughtfully out the window across the shining river for a moment. "I have two," he murmured, "and you have only one. It isn't fair. You shall have your boy." He turned to his desk and wrote the order for his discharge.
Entering now in his ninth year, he was shy, reticent, over-grown, consciously awkward, homely and ill clad he grew so rapidly it was impossible to make his clothes fit. But in the depths of his hazel-grey eyes there were slumbering fires that set him apart from the boys of his age. His mother saw and understood.
His father, also invalided out; his left coat sleeve half empty, where the forearm had been removed. "N no," he said at last, still staring at the unblinking sunshine. "Not Home. Not yet anyway." Then, having confessed, he turned and looked straight into the eyes of his friend the hazel-grey eyes he had so admired, as a small boy, because of the way they darkened with anger or strong feeling.
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