But at night, when his daughter was asleep and the house sank into silence, he would open an old box where he kept a few things from the first war. A medal that did not interest him. A unit photograph with faces of whom half had not returned. And Daniel’s little embroidered cloth, the one with the initials, which had come to him by chance after Daniel’s death because some sergeant had handed it over, saying, “You were his friend, weren’t you? Keep it.”