The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tin Soldier, by Temple Bailey (2024)

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Title: The Tin Soldier

Author: Temple Bailey

Release Date: March 27, 2006 [eBook #18056]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIN SOLDIER***

[Frontispiece: "I shall come back for more"]

BY

TEMPLE BAILEY

AUTHOR OF
GLORY OF YOUTH, CONTRARY MARY, ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
F. VAUX WILSON

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1918 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

First printing November, 1916.
Second printing January, 1919.
Third printing March, 1919.
Fourth printing May, 1919.
Sixth printing September, 1919.

The Tin Soldier

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE
ON THE SHELF

BOOK TWO
THROUGH THE CRACK

BOOK THREE
THE BUGLE CALLS

ILLUSTRATIONS

"I shall come back for more"...... _Frontispiece_

"I haven't anything left—for you"

"If anything should happen, you will remember?"

"These are my jewels"

BOOK ONE

ON THE SHELF

CHAPTER I

THE TOY SHOP

The lights shining through the rain on the smooth street made of it agolden river.

The shabby old gentleman navigated unsteadily until he came to acorner. A lamp-post offered safe harbor. He steered for it and tookhis bearings. On each side of the glimmering stream loomed darkhouses. A shadowy blot on the triangle he knew to be a church. Beyondthe church was the intersecting avenue. Down the avenue were the smallexclusive shops which were gradually encroaching on the residencesection.

The shabby old gentleman took out his watch. It was a fine old watch,not at all in accord with the rest of him. It was almost six. Thedarkness of the November afternoon had come at five. The shabby oldgentleman swung away from the lamppost and around the corner, thenbolted triumphantly into the Toy Shop.

"Here I am," he said, with an attempt at buoyancy, and sat down.

"Oh," said the girl behind the counter, "you are wet."

"Well, I said I'd come, didn't I? Rain or shine? In five minutes Ishould have been too late—shop closed—" He lurched a little towardsher.

She backed away from him. "You—you are—wet—won't you take cold—?"

"Never take cold—glad to get here—" He smiled and shut his eyes,opened them and smiled again, nodded and recovered, nodded and came torest with his head on the counter.

The girl made a sudden rush for the rear door of the shop. "Look here,Emily. Poor old duck!"

Emily, standing in the doorway, surveyed the sleeping derelictscornfully. "You'd better put him out. It is six o'clock, Jean—"

"He was here yesterday—and he was furious because I wouldn't sell himany soldiers. He said he wanted to make a bonfire of the Prussianones—and to buy the French and English ones for his son," she laughed.

"Of course you told him they were not for sale."

"Yes. But he insisted. And when he went away he told me he'd comeagain and bring a lot of money—"

The shabby old gentleman, rousing at the psychological moment, threw onthe counter a roll of bills and murmured brokenly:

"'Ten little soldiers fighting on the line,
One was blown to glory, and, then there were nine—!'"

His head fell forward and again he slept.

"Disgusting," said Emily Bridges; "of course we've got to get him out."

Getting him out, however, offered difficulties. He was a very big oldgentleman, and they were little women.

"We might call the police—"

"Oh, Emily—"

"Well, if you can suggest anything better. We must close the shop."

"We might put him in a taxi—and send him home."

"He probably hasn't any home."

"Don't be so pessimistic—he certainly has money."

"You don't know where he got it. You can't be too careful, Jean—"

The girl, touching the old man's shoulder, asked, "Where do you live?"

He murmured indistinctly.

"Where?" she bent her ear down to him.

Waking, he sang:

"Two little soldiers, blowing up a Hun—
The darned thing—exploded—
And then there was—One—"

"Oh, Emily, did you ever hear anything so funny?"

Emily couldn't see the funny side of it. It was tragic and it wasdisconcerting. "I don't know what to do. Perhaps you'd better call ataxi."

"He's shivering, Emily. I believe I'll make him a cup of chocolate."

"Dear child, it will be a lot of trouble—"

"I'd like to do it—really."

"Very well." Emily was not unsympathetic, but she had had a ratherwearing life. Her love of toys and of little children had kept herhuman, otherwise she had a feeling that she might have hardened intochill spinsterhood.

As Jean disappeared through the door, the elder woman moved about theshop, setting it in order for the night. It was a labor of love to putthe dolls to bed, to lock the glass doors safely on the puffy rabbitsand woolly dogs and round-eyed cats, to close the drawers on thetea-sets and Lilliputian kitchens, to shut into boxes the tin soldiersthat their queer old customer had craved.

For more than a decade Emily Bridges had kept the shop. Originally ithad been a Thread and Needle Shop, supplying people who did not care togo downtown for such wares.

Then one Christmas she had put in a few things to attract the children.The children had come, and gradually there had been more toys—until atlast she had found herself the owner of a Toy Shop, with the thread andneedle and other staid articles stuck negligently in the background.

Yet in the last three years it had been hard to keep up the standardwhich she had set for herself. Toys were made in Germany, and the menwho had made them were in the trenches, the women who had helped werein the fields—the days when the bisque babies had smiled on happyworking-households were over. There was death and darkness where oncethe rollicking clowns and dancing dolls had been set to mechanicalmusic.

Jean, coming back with the chocolate, found Emily with a great whiteplush elephant in her arms. His trappings were of red velvet and therewas much gold; he was the last of a line of assorted sizes.

There had always been a white elephant in Miss Emily's window.Painfully she had seen her supply dwindle. For this last of the herd,she had a feeling far in excess of his value, such as a collector mighthave for a rare coin of a certain minting, or a bit of pottery of apre-historic period.

She had not had the heart to sell him. "I may never get another. Andthere are none made like him in America."

"After the war—" Jean had hinted.

Miss Emily had flared, "Do you think I shall buy toys of Germany afterthis war?"

"Good for you, Emily. I was afraid you might."

But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily wrapped the old mastodon upin a white cloth. "I believe I'll take him home with me. People arealways asking to buy him, and it's hard to explain."

"I should say it is. I had an awful time with him," she indicated theold gentleman, "yesterday."

She set the tray down on the counter. There was a slim silver pot onit, and a thin green cup. She poked the sleeping man with a tentativefinger. "Won't you please wake up and have some chocolate."

Rousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hospitality. "My dear younglady," he said, with a trace of courtliness, "you shouldn't havetroubled—" and reached out a trembling hand for the cup. There was aring on the hand, a seal ring with a coat of arms. As he drank thechocolate eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old coat.

He was facing the door. Suddenly it opened, and his cup fell with acrash.

A young man came in. He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the oldgentleman. He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat. He tookoff his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness. Hiseyebrows made a dark pencilled line—his eyes were gray. It was astriking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache.

He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder,"Hello, Dad." Then, anxiously, to the two women, "I hope he hasn'ttroubled you. He isn't quite—himself."

Jean nodded. "I am so glad you came. We didn't know what to do."

"I've been looking for him—" He bent to pick up the broken cup. "I'mdreadfully sorry. You must let me pay for it."

"Oh, no."

"Please." He was looking at it. "It was valuable?"

"Yes," Jean admitted, "it was one of Emily's precious pets."

"Please don't think any more about it," Emily begged. "You had betterget your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot waterbottle."

Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emilyfound herself softening towards the old gentleman. Simply as aderelict she had not cared what became of him. But as the father ofthis son, she cared.

"Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad."

The old gentleman stood up. "Wait a minute—I came for tinsoldiers—Derry—"

"They are not for sale," Miss Emily stated. "They are made in Germany.I can't get any more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind from myselling stock."

The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately.

"Oh, Emily," said the girl behind the counter, "don't you think wemight—?"

Derry Drake glanced at her with sudden interest. She had an unusualvoice, quick and thrilling. It matched her beauty, which was of a rarequality—white skin, blue eyes, crinkled hair like beaten copper.

"I don't see," he said, smiling for the first time, "what Dad wants oftin soldiers."

"To make 'em fight," said the shabby old man, "we've got to have somefighting blood in the family."

The smile was struck from the young man's face. Out of a dead silence,he said at last, "You were very good to look after him. Come, Dad."His voice was steady, but the flush that had flamed in his cheeks wasstill there, as he put his arm about the shaky old man and led him tothe door.

"Thank you both again," he said from the threshold. Then, with hishead high, he steered his unsteady parent out into the rain.

It was late when the two women left the shop. Miss Emily, strugglingdown the block with her white elephant, found, in a few minutes, harborin her boarding house. But Jean lived in the more fashionable sectionbeyond Dupont Circle. Her father was a doctor with a practice amongthe older district people, who, in spite of changing administrationsand fluctuating populations, had managed, to preserve their familytraditions and social identity.

Dr. McKenzie did not always dine at home. But tonight when Jean camedown he was at the head of the table. He was a big, handsome man withcrinkled hair like his daughter's, copper-colored and cut close to hisrather classic head.

Hilda Merritt was also at the table. She was a trained nurse, who,having begun life as the Doctor's office-girl, had, gradually, afterhis wife's death, assumed the management of his household. Jean wasnot fond of her. She had repeatedly begged that her dear Emily mighttake Miss Merritt's place.

"But Hilda is much younger," her father had contended, "and much moreof a companion for you."

"She isn't a companion at all, Daddy. We haven't the same thoughts."

But Hilda had stayed on, and Jean had sought her dear Emily's companyin the little shop. Sometimes she waited on customers. Sometimes sheworked in the rear room. It was always a great joke to feel that shewas really helping. In all her life her father had never let her do auseful thing.

The table was lighted with candles, and there was a silver dish offruit in the center. The dinner was well-served by a trim maid.

Jean ate very little. Her father noticed her lack of appetite, "Whydon't you eat your dinner, dear?"

"I had chocolate at Emily's."

"I don't think she ought to go there so often," Miss Merritt complained.

"Why not?" Jean's voice was like the crack of a whip.

"It is so late when you get home. It isn't safe."

"I can always send the car for you, Jean," her father said. "I don'tcare to have you out alone."

"Having the car isn't like walking. You know it isn't, Daddy, with therain against your cheeks and the wind—"

Dr. McKenzie's quick imagination was fired. His eyes were like Jean's,lighted from within.

"I suppose it is all right if she comes straight up Connecticut Avenue,Hilda?"

Miss Merritt had long white hands which lay rather limply on the table.Her arms were bare. She was handsome in a red-cheeked, blond fashion.

"Of course if you think it is all right, Doctor—"

"It is up to Jean. If she isn't afraid, we needn't worry."

"I'm not afraid of anything."

He smiled at her. She was so pretty and slim and feminine in her whitegown, with a string of pearls on her white neck. He liked prettythings and he liked her fearlessness. He had never been afraid. Itpleased him that his daughter should share his courage.

"Perhaps, if I am not too busy, I will come for you the next time yougo to the shop. Would walking with me break the spell of the wind andwet?"

"You know it wouldn't. It would be quite—heavenly—Daddy."

After dinner, Doctor McKenzie read the evening paper. Jean sat on therug in front of the fire and knitted for the soldiers. She had madesweaters until it seemed sometimes as if she saw life through a haze ofolive-drab.

"I am going to knit socks next," she told her father.

He looked up from his paper. "Did you ever stop to think what it meansto a man over there when a woman says 'I'm going to knit socks'?"

Jean nodded. That was one of the charms which her father had for her.He saw things. It was tired soldiers at this moment, marching in thecold and needing—socks.

Hilda, having no vision, remarked from the corner where she sat withher book, "There's no sense in all this killing—I wish we'd kept outof it."

"Wasn't there any sense," said little Jean from the hearth rug, "inBunker Hill and Valley Forge?"

Hilda evaded that. "Anyhow, I'm glad they've stopped playing the'Star-Spangled Banner' at the movies. I'm tired of standing up."

Jean voiced her scorn. "I'd stand until I dropped, rather than miss anote of it."

Doctor McKenzie interposed:

"'The time has come,' the Walrus said,
'To talk of many things,
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—'"

"Oh, Daddy," Jean reproached him, "I should think you might be serious."

"I am not just twenty—and I have learned to bank my fires. And youmustn't take Hilda too literally. She doesn't mean all that she says,do you, Hilda?"

He patted Miss Merritt on the shoulder as he went out. Jean hatedthat. And Hilda's blush.

With the Doctor gone, Hilda shut herself up in the office to balanceher books.

Jean went on with her knitting, Hilda did not knit. When she was nothelping in the office or in the house, her hands lay idle in her lap.

Jean's mind, as she worked, was on those long white hands of Hilda's.Her own hands had short fingers like her father's. Her mother's handshad been slender and transparent. Hilda's hands were not slender, theyhad breadth as well as length, and the skin was thick. Even thewhiteness was like the flesh of a fish, pale and flabby. No, there wasno beauty at all in Hilda's hands.

Once Jean had criticised them to her father. "I think they are ugly."

"They are useful hands, and they have often helped me."

"I like Emily's hands much better."

"Oh, you and your Emily," he had teased.

Yet Jean's words came back to the Doctor the next night, as he sat inthe Toy Shop waiting to escort his daughter home.

Miss Emily was serving a customer, a small boy in a red coat and baggytrousers. A nurse stood behind the small boy, and played, as it were,Chorus. She wore a blue cape and a long blue bow on the back of herhat.

The small boy was having the mechanical toys wound up for him. Heexpressed a preference for the clowns, but didn't like the colors.

"I want him boo'," he informed Miss Emily, "he's for a girl, and sheyikes boo'."

"Blue," said the nurse austerely, "you know your mother doesn't likebaby talk, Teddy."

"Ble-yew—" said the small boy, carefully.

"Blue clowns," Miss Emily stated, sympathetically, "are hard to get.Most of them are red. I have the nicest thing that I haven't shownyou. But it costs a lot—"

"It's a birfday present," said the small boy.

"Birthday," from the Chorus.

"Be-yirthday," was the amended version, "and I want it nice."

Miss Emily brought forth from behind the glass doors of a case a smallgreen silk head of lettuce. She set it on the counter, and her fingersfound the key, then clickety-click, clickety-click, she wound it up.It played a faint tune, the leaves opened—a rabbit with a wide-frilledcollar rose in the center. He turned from side to side, he waggled hisears, and nodded his head, he winked an eye; then he disappeared, theleaves closed, the music stopped.

The small boy was entranced. "It's boo-ful—"

"Beautiful—" from the background.

"Be-yewtiful—. I'll take it, please."

It was while Miss Emily was winding the toy that Dr. McKenzie noticedher bands. They were young hands, quick and delightful hands. Theyhovered over the toy, caressingly, beat time to the music, rested for amoment on the shoulders of the little boy as he stood finally withupturned face and tied-up parcel.

"I'm coming adain," he told her.

"Again—."

"Ag-yain—," patiently.

"I hope you will." Miss Emily held out her hand. She did not kisshim. He was a boy, and she knew better.

When he had gone, importantly, Emily saw the Doctor's eyes upon her."I hated to sell it," she said, with a sigh; "goodness knows when Ishall get another. But I can't resist the children—"

He laughed. "You are a miser, Emily."

He had known her for many years. She was his wife's distant cousin,and had been her dearest friend. She had taught in a private schoolbefore she opened her shop, and Jean had been one of her pupils. SinceMrs. McKenzie's death it had been Emily who had mothered Jean.

The Doctor had always liked her, but without enthusiasm. Hisadmiration of women depended largely on their looks. His wife hadmeant more to him than that, but it had been her beauty which had firstheld him.

Emily Bridges had been a slender and diffident girl. She had kept herslenderness, but she had lost her diffidence, and she had gained an airof distinction. She dressed well, her really pretty feet were alwayscarefully shod and her hair carefully waved. Yet she was one of thewomen who occupy the background rather than the foreground of men'slives—the kind of woman for whom a man must be a Columbus, discoveringnew worlds for himself.

"Yon are a miser," the Doctor repeated.

"Wouldn't you be, under the same circ*mstances? If it were, forexample, surgical instruments—anaesthetics—? And you knew that whenthey were gone you wouldn't get any more?"

He did not like logic in a woman. He wanted to laugh and tease. "Jeantold me about the white elephant."

"Well, what of it? I have him at home—safe. In a big box—withmoth-balls—" Her lips twitched. "Oh, it must seem funny to anyonewho doesn't feel as I do."

The door of the rear room opened, and Jean came in, carrying in herarms an assortment of strange creatures which she set in a row on thefloor in front of her father.

"There?" she asked, "what do you think of them?"

They were silhouettes of birds and beasts, made of wood, painted andvarnished. But such ducks had never quacked, such geese had neverwaddled, such dogs had never barked—fantastic as a nightmare—toolong—too broad—exaggerated out of all reality, they might havemarched with Alice from Wonderland or from behind the Looking Glass.

"I made them, Daddy."

"You—."

"Yes, do you like them?"

"Aren't they a bit—uncanny?"

"We've sold dozens; the children adore them."

"And you haven't told me you were doing it. Why?"

"I wanted you to see them first—a surprise. We call them the LovelyDreams, and we made the ducks green and the puss* cats pink becausethat's the way the children see them in their own little minds—"

She was radiant. "And I am making money, Daddy. Emily had such a hardtime getting toys after the war began, so we thought we'd try. And weworked out these. I get a percentage on all sales."

He frowned. "I am not sure that I like that."

"Why not?"

"Don't I give you money enough?"

"Of course. But this is different."

"How different?"

"It is my own. Don't you see?"

Being a man he did not see, but Miss Emily did. "Any work that isworth doing at all is worth being paid for. You know that, Doctor."

He did know it, but he didn't like to have a woman tell him. "Shedoesn't need the money."

"I do. I am giving it to the Red Cross. Please don't be stuffy aboutit, Daddy."

"Am I stuffy?"

"Yes."

He tried to redeem himself by a rather tardy enthusiasm and succeeded.Jean brought out more Lovely Dreams, until a grotesque processionstretched across the room.

"Tomorrow," she announced, triumphantly, "we'll put them in the window,and you'll see the children coming."

As she carried them away, Doctor McKenzie said to Emily, "It seemsstrange that she should want to do it."

"Not at all. She needs an outlet for her energies."

"Oh, does she?"

"If she weren't your daughter, you'd know it."

On the way home he said, "I am very proud of you, my dear."

Jean had tucked her arm through his. It was not raining, but the skywas full of ragged clouds, and the wind blew strongly. They felt thepush of it as they walked against it.

"Oh," she said, with her cheek against his rough coat, "are you proudof me because of my green ducks and my pink puss* cats?"

But she knew it was more than that, although he laughed, and shelaughed with him, as if his pride in her was a thing which they tooklightly. But they both walked a little faster to keep pace with theirquickened blood.

Thus their walk became a sort of triumphant progress. They passed theBritish Embassy with the Lion and the Unicorn watching over it in thenight; they rounded the Circle and came suddenly upon a line of motorcars.

"The Secretary is dining a rather important commission," the Doctorsaid; "it was in the paper. They are to have a war feast—threecourses, no wine, and limited meats and sweets."

They stopped for a moment as the guests descended from their cars andswept across the sidewalk. The lantern which swung low from the archedentrance showed a spot of rosy color—the velvet wrap of a girl whoseknot of dark curls shone above the ermine collar. A Spanish comb,encrusted with diamonds, was stuck at right angles to the knot.

Beside the young woman in the rosy wrap walked a young man in a furcoat who topped her by a head. He had gray eyes and a small upturnedmustache—Jean uttered an exclamation.

"What's the matter?" her father asked.

"Oh, nothing—" she watched the two ascend the stairs. "I thought fora moment that I knew him."

The great door opened and closed, the rosy wrap and the fur coat wereswallowed up.

"Of course it couldn't be," Jean decided as she and her fathercontinued on their wonderful way.

"Couldn't be what, my dear?"

"The same man, Daddy," Jean said, and changed the subject.

CHAPTER II

CINDERELLA

The next time that Jean saw Him was at the theater. She and her fatherwent to worship at the shrine of Maude Adams, and He was there.

It was Jean's yearly treat. There were, of course, other plays. Butsince her very-small-girlhood, there had been always that red-letternight when "The Little Minister" or "Hop-o'-my-Thumb" or "Peter Pan"had transported her straight from the real world to that whimsical,tender, delightful realm where Barrie reigns.

Peter Pan had been the climax!

Do you believe in fairies?

Of course she did. And so did Miss Emily. And so did her father,except in certain backsliding moments. But Hilda didn't.

Tonight it was "A Kiss for Cinderella"—! The very name had beenenough to set Jean's cheeks burning and her eyes shining.

"Do you remember, Daddy, that I was six when I first saw her, and she'sas young as ever?"

"Younger." It was at such moments that the Doctor was at his best.The youth in him matched the youth in his daughter. They were boy andgirl together.

And now the girl on the stage, whose undying youth made her theinterpreter of dreams for those who would never grow up, wove her magicspells of tears and laughter.

It was not until the first satisfying act was over that Jean drew along breath and looked about her.

The house was packed. The old theater with its painted curtain hadnothing modern to recommend it. But to Jean's mind it could not havebeen improved. She wanted not one thing changed. For years and yearsshe had sat in her favorite seat in the seventh row of the parquet andhad loved the golden proscenium arch, the painted goddesses, the redvelvet hangings—she had thrilled to the voice and gesture of theartists who had played to please her. There had been "Wang" and "TheWizard of Oz"; "Robin Hood"; the tall comedian of "Casey at the Bat";the short comedian who had danced to fame on his crooked legs; Mrs.Fiske, most incomparable Becky; Mansfield, Sothern—some of them, alas,already gods of yesterday!

At first there had been matinées with her mother—"The LittlePrincess," over whose sorrows she had wept in the harrowing first act,having to be consoled with chocolates and the promise of brighterthings as the play progressed.

Now and then she had come with Hilda. But never when she could helpit. "I'd rather stay at home," she had told her father.

"But—why—?"

"Because she laughs in the wrong places."

Her father never laughed in the wrong places, and he squeezed her handin those breathless moments where words would have been desecration,and wiped his eyes frankly when his feelings were stirred.

"There is no one like you, Daddy," she had told him, "to enjoy things."And so it had come about that he had pushed away his work on certainnights and, sitting beside her, had forgotten the sordid and sufferingworld which he knew so well, and which she knew not at all.

As her eyes swept the house, they rested at last with a rather puzzledlook on a stout old gentleman with a wide shirt-front, who sat in theright-hand box. He had white hair and a red face.

Where had she seen him?

There were women in the box, a sparkling company in white and silver,and black and diamonds, and green and gold. There was a bigbald-headed man, and quite in the shadow back of them all, a slenderyouth.

It was when the slender youth leaned forward to speak to the vision inwhite and silver that Jean stared and stared again.

She knew now where she had seen the old gentleman with the wide shirtfront. He was the shabby old gentleman of the Toy Shop! And the youthwas the shabby son!

Yet here they were in state and elegance! As if a fairy godmother hadwaved a wand—!

The curtain went up on a feverish little slavey with her mind set ongoing to the ball, on Our Policeman wanting a shave, on the orphans inboxes, on baked potato offered as hospitality by a half-starvedhostess, on a waiting Cinderella asleep on a frozen doorstep.

And then the ball—and Mona Lisa, and the duch*ess of Devonshire, andThe Girl with the Pitcher and the Girl with the Muff—and Cinderella inazure tulle and cloth-of-gold, dancing with the Prince at the end likemad—.

Then the bell boomed—the lights went out—and after a little moment,one saw Cinderella, stripped of her finery, staggering up the stairs.

Jean cried and laughed, and cried again. Yet even in the midst of heremotion, she found her eyes pulled away from that appealing figure onthe stage to those faintly illumined figures in the box.

When the curtain went down, her father, most surprisingly, bowed to theold gentleman and received in return a genial nod.

"Oh, do you know him?" she demanded.

"Yes. It is General Drake."

"Who are the others?"

"I am not sure about the women. The boy in the back of the box is hisson, DeRhymer Drake."

Derry!

"Oh,"—she had a feeling that she was not being quite candid with herfather—"he's rather swank, isn't he, Daddy?"

"Heavens, what slang! I don't see where you get it. He is rich, ifthat's what you mean, and it's a wonder he isn't spoiled to death. Hismother is dead, and the General is his own worst enemy; eats and drinkstoo much, and thinks he can get away with it."

"Are they very rich—?"

"Millions, with only Derry to leave it to. He's the child of a secondwife."

Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely Cinderella, could your godmother do morethan this? To endow two rained-on and shabby gentlemen with pomp andcirc*mstance!

Jean tucked her hand into her father's, as if to anchor herself againstthis amazing tide of revelation. Then, as the auditorium darkened, andthe curtain went up, she was swept along on a wave of emotions in whichthe play world and the real world were inextricably mixed.

And now Our Policeman discovers that he is "romantical." Cinderellafinds her Prince, who isn't in the least the Prince of the fairy tale,but much nicer under the circ*mstance—and the curtain goes down on aglass slipper stuck on the toes of two tiny feet and a co*ckneyCinderella, quite content.

"Well," Jean drew a long breath. "It was the loveliest ever, Daddy,"she said, as he helped her with her cloak.

And it was while she stood there in that cloak of heavenly blue thatthe young man in the box looked down and saw her.

He batted his eyes.

Of course she wasn't real.

But when he opened them, there she was, smiling up into the face of theman who had helped her into that heavenly garment.

It came to him, quite suddenly, that his father had bowed to theman—the big man with the classic head and the air of being at easewith himself and the world.

He did things to the velvet and ermine wrap that he was holding, whichseemed to satisfy its owner, then he gripped his father's arm. "Dad,who is that big man down there—with the red head—the one who bowed toyou?"

"Dr. McKenzie, Bruce McKenzie, the nerve specialist—"

Of course it was something to know that, but one didn't get very far.

"Let's go somewhere and eat," said the General, and that was the end ofit. Out of the tail of his eye, Derry Drake saw the two figures withthe copper-colored heads move down the aisle, to be finally merged intothe indistinguishable stream of humanity which surged towards the door.

Jean and her father did not go to supper at the big hotel around thecorner as was their custom.

"I've got to get to the hospital before twelve," the Doctor said. "Iam sorry, dear—"

"It doesn't make a bit of difference. I don't want to eat," shesettled herself comfortably beside him in the car. "Oh, it is snowing,Daddy, how splendid—"

He laughed. "You little bundle of—ecstasy—what am I going to do withyou?"

"Love me. And isn't the snow—wonderful?"

"Yes. But everybody doesn't see it that way."

"I am glad that I do. I should hate to see nothing in all thismiracle, but—slush tomorrow—"

"Yet a lot of life is just—slush tomorrow—. I wish you need neverfind that out—."

When Jean went into the house, and her father drove on, she found Hildawaiting up for her.

"Father had to go to the hospital."

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"No."

"I thought I might cook some oysters."

"I am really not hungry." Then feeling that her tone was ungracious,she tried to make amends. "It was nice of you to think of it—"

"Your father may like them. I'll have them hot for him."

Jean lingered uncertainly. She didn't want the food, but she hated toleave the field to Hilda. She unfastened her cloak, and sat down."How are you going to cook them?"

"Panned—with celery."

"It sounds good—I think I'll stay down, Hilda."

"As you wish."

The Doctor, coming in with his coat powdered with snow, found hisdaughter in a big chair in front of the library fire.

"I thought you'd be in bed."

"Hilda has some oysters for us."

"Fine—I'm starved."

She looked at him, meditatively, "I don't see how you can be."

"Why not?"

"Oh, on such a night as this, Daddy? Food seems superfluous."

He sat down, smiling. "Don't ever expect to feed any man over forty onstar-dust. Hilda knows better, don't you, Hilda?"

Hilda was bringing in the tray. There was a copper chafing-dish and apercolator. She wore her nurse's outfit of white linen. She lookedwell in it, and she was apt to put it on after dinner, when she was incharge of the office.

"You know better than to feed a man on stardust, don't you?" the Doctorpersisted.

Hilda lifted the cover of the chafing-dish and stirred the contents."Well, yes," she smiled at him, "you see, I have lived longer thanJean. She'll learn."

"I don't want to learn," Jean told her hotly. "I want to believethat—that—" Words failed her.

"That men can live on star-dust?" her father asked gently. "Well, sobe it. We won't quarrel with her, will we, Hilda?"

The oysters were very good. Jean ate several with healthy appetite.Her father, twinkling, teased her, "You see—?"

She shrugged, "All the same, I didn't need them."

Hilda, putting things back on the tray, remarked: "There was a messagefrom Mrs. Witherspoon. Her son is on leave for the week end. Shewants you for dinner on Saturday night—both of you."

Doctor McKenzie tapped a finger on the table thoughtfully, "Oh, doesshe? Do you want to go, Jeanie?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"I am not sure. I should like to build a fence about you, my dear, andnever let a man look over. Ralph Witherspoon wants to marry her,Hilda, what do you think of that?"

"Well, why not?" Hilda laid her long hands flat on the table, leaningon them.

Jean felt little prickles of irritability. "Because I don't want toget married, Hilda."

Hilda gave her a sidelong glance, "Of course you do. But you don'tknow it."

She went out with her tray. Jean turned, white-faced, to her father,"I wish she wouldn't say such things—"

"My dear, I am afraid you don't quite do her justice."

"Oh, well, we won't talk about her. I've got to go to bed, Daddy."

She kissed him wistfully. "Sometimes I think there are two of you, theone that likes me, and the one that likes Hilda."

With his hands on her shoulders, he gave an easy laugh. "Who knows?But you mustn't have it on your mind. It isn't good for you."

"I shall always have you on my mind—."

"But not to worry about, baby. I'm not worth it—."

Hilda came in with the evening paper. "Have you read it, Doctor?"

"No." He glanced at the headlines and his face grew hard. "Morefrightfulness," he said, stormily. "If I had my way, it should be aneye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. For every man they have tortured,there should be one of their men—tortured. For every child mutilated,one of theirs—mutilated. For every woman—."

He stopped. Jean had caught hold of his arm. "Don't, Daddy," she saidthickly, "it makes me afraid of you." She covered her face with herhands.

He drew her to him and smoothed her hair in silence. Over her head heglanced at Hilda. She was smiling inscrutably into the fire.

CHAPTER III

DRUSILLA

The thing that Derry Drake had on his mind the next morning was atea-cup. There were other things on his mind—things so heavy that heturned with relief to the contemplation of cups.

Stuck all over the great house were cabinets of china—his father hadcollected and his mother had prized. Derry, himself, had not cared forany of it until this morning, but when Bronson, the old man who servedhim and had served his father for years, came in with his breakfast,Derry showed him a broken bit which he had brought home with him twonights before. "Have we a cup like this anywhere in the house,Bronson?"

"There's a lot of them, sir, in the blue room, in the wall cupboard."

"I thought so, let me have one of them. If Dad ever asks for it, sendhim to me. He broke the other, so it's a fair exchange."

He had it carefully wrapped and carried it downtown with him. Themorning was clear, and the sun sparkled on the snow. As he passedthrough Dupont Circle he found that a few children and their nurses hadbraved the cold. One small boy in a red coat ran to Derry.

"Where are you going, Cousin Derry?"

"Down town."

"To-day is Margaret-Mary's birf-day. I am going to give her awabbit—."

"Rabbit, Buster. You'd better say it quick. Nurse is on the way."

"Rab-yit. What are you going to give her?"

"Oh, must I give her something?"

"Of course. Mother said you'd forget it. I wanted to telephone, andshe wouldn't let me."

"Would a doll do?"

"I shouldn't like a doll. But she is littler. And you mustn't spendmuch money. Mother said I spent too much for my rab-yit. That I oughtto save it for Our Men. And you mustn't eat what you yike—we've got acard in the window, and there wasn't any bacon for bref-fus."

"Breakfast."

"Yes. An' we had puffed rice and prunes—"

Nurse, coming up, was immediately on the job. "You are getting mud onMr. Derry's spats, Teddy. Stand up like a little gentleman."

"He is always that, Nurse, isn't he? And I should not have on spats atthis hour in the morning."

Derry smiled to himself as he left them. He knew that Nurse did notapprove of him. He had a way as it were of aiding and abetting Teddy.

But as he went on the smile faded. There were many soldiers on thestreet, many uniforms, flags of many nations draping doorways wherewere housed the men from across the sea who were working shoulder toshoulder with America for the winning of the war—. Washington hadtaken on a new aspect. It had a waked-up look, as if its lazy dayswere over, and there were real things to do.

The big church at the triangle showed a Red Cross banner. Within womenwere making bandages, knitting sweaters and socks, sewing up the longseams of shirts and pajamas. A few years ago they had worshipped aChrist among the lilies. They saw him now on the battlefield,crucified again in the cause of humanity.

It seemed to Derry that even the civilians walked with something of amartial stride. Men, who for years had felt their strength sapped bythe monotony of Government service, were revived by the winds ofpatriotism which swept from the four corners of the earth. Women whohad lost youth and looks in the treadmill of Departmental life held uptheir heads as if their eyes beheld a new vision.

Street cars were crowded, things were at sixes and sevens; red tape wasloose where it should have been tight and tight where it should havebeen loose. Little men with the rank of officer sat in swivel chairsand tried to direct big things; big men, without rank, were tied to thetrivial. Many, many things were wrong, and many, many things wereright, as it is always when war comes upon a people unprepared.

And in the midst of all this clash and crash and movement andachievement, Derry was walking to a toy shop to carry a tea-cup!

He found Miss Emily alone in the big front room.

She did not at once recognize him.

"You remember I was in here the other night—and you wouldn't sell—tinsoldiers—."

She flushed a little. "Oh, with your father?"

"Yes. He's a dear old chap—."

It was the best apology he could make, and she loved him for it.

He brought out the cup and set it on the counter. "It is like yours?"

"Yes." But she did not want to take it.

"Please. I brought it on purpose. We have a dozen."

"Of these?"

"Yes."

"But it will break your set."

"We have oodles of sets. Dad collects—you know— There are dishesenough in the house to start a crockery shop."

She glanced at him curiously. It was hard to reconcile this slim youngman of fashion with the shabby boy of the other night. But there werethe lad's eyes, smiling into hers!

"I should like, too, if you don't mind, to find a toy for a very littlegirl. It is her birthday, and I had forgotten."

"It is dreadful to forget," Miss Emily told him, "children care somuch."

"I have never forgotten before, but I had so much on my mind."

She brought forth the Lovely Dreams—"They have been a great success."

He chose at once a rose-colored cat and a yellow owl. The cat wascarved impressionistically in a series of circles. She was altogethercelestial and comfortable. The owl might have been lighted by the moon.

"But why?" Derry asked, "a rose-colored cat?"

"Isn't a white cat pink and puffy in the firelight? And a child seesher pink and puffy. If we don't it is because we are blind."

"But why the green ducks and the amethyst cows?"

"The cows are coming tinkling home in the twilight—the green ducksswim under the willows. And they are longer and broader because of thelights and shadows. That's the way you saw them when you were six."

"By Jove," he said, staring, "I believe I did."

"So there's nothing queer about them to the children—you ought to seethem listen when Jean tells them."

Jean—!

"She—she tells the children?"

"Yes. Charming stories. I am having them put in a little pamphlet togo with the toys."

"She's Dr. McKenzie's daughter, isn't she? I saw her last night at theplay."

"Yes. Such a dear child. She is usually here in the afternoon."

He had hoped until then that Jean might be hidden in that rear room,locked up with the dolls in a drawer, tucked away in a box—he had ablank feeling of the futility of his tea-cup—

Then, suddenly, the gods being in a gay mood, Jean arrived!

At once his errand justified itself. She wore a gray squirrel jacketand a hat to match—and her crinkled copper-colored hair came out fromunder the hat and over her ears. She carried a little muff. Hereyes—the color of her cheeks! A man might walk to the world's end forless than this—!

He was buying, he told her, pink puss* cats and yellow owls. Had sheliked the play last night? He was glad that she adored Maude Adams.He adored—Maude Adams. Did she remember "Peter Pan"? Yes, he hadgone to everything—glorified matinées—glorified everything! Wasn'tit remarkable that his father knew her father? And she was JeanMcKenzie, and he was Derry Drake!

At last there was no excuse for him to linger. "I shall come back formore—Lovely Dreams," he told Miss Emily, and got away.

Alone in the shop the two women looked at each other. Then Emily said,"Jean, darling, how dreadful it must be for him."

"Dreadful—."

"With such a father—."

"Oh, you mean—the other night."

"Yes. He isn't happy, Jean."

"How do you know?"

"He has lonesome eyes."

"Oh, Emily."

"Well, he has, and it must be dreadful."

How dreadful it was neither of them could really know. Derry, havinglunched with a rather important committee, went to Drusilla Gray's inthe afternoon for a cup of tea. He was called almost at once to thetelephone. Bronson was at the other end. "I am sorry, Mr. Derry, butI thought you ought to know—"

Derry, with the sick feeling which always came over him with theknowledge of what was ahead, said steadily, "That's all right,Bronson—which way did he go?"

"He took the Cabin John car, sir. I tried to get on, but he saw me,and sent me back, and I didn't like to make a scene. Shall I follow ina taxi?"

"Yes; I'll get away as soon as I can and call you up out there."

He went back to Drusilla. "Sing for me," he said. Drusilla Gray livedwith her Aunt Marion in an apartment winch overlooked Rock Creek.Marion Gray occupied herself with the writing of books. Drusilla hadvarying occupations. Just now she was interested in interiordecoration and in the war.

She was also interested in trying to flirt with Derry Drake. "He won'tplay the game," she told her aunt, "and that's why I like it—the game,I mean."

"You like him because he hasn't surrendered."

"No. He is a rather perfect thing of his kind, like a bit of jewelledSèvres or Sang de boeuf. And he doesn't know it. And that's anotherthing in his favor—his modesty. He makes me think of a littleAustrian prince I once met at Palm Beach; who wore a white satin shirtwith a high collar of gold embroidery, and white kid boots, andwonderful rings—and his nails long like a Chinaman's. At first welaughed at him—called him effeminate—. But after we knew him wedidn't laugh. There was the blood in him of kings and rulers—andpresently he had us on our knees. And Derry's like that. When youfirst meet him you look over his head; then you find yourself lookingup—"

Marion smiled. "You've got it bad, Drusilla."

"If you think I am in love with him, I'm not. I'd like to be, but itwouldn't be of any use. He's a Galahad—a pocket-edition Galahad. Ifhe ever falls in love, there'll be more of romance in it than I cangive him."

It was to this Drusilla that Derry had come. He liked her immensely.And they had in common a great love of music.

She had tea for him, and some rather strange little spiced cakes on ared lacquer tray. There was much dark blue and vivid red in the room,with white woodwork. Drusilla herself was in unrelieved red. Theeffect was startling but stimulating.

"I am not sure that I like it," she said, "the red and white and blue,but I wanted to see whether I could do it. And Aunt Marion doesn'tcare. The red things can all be taken out, and the rest toned down.But I have a feeling that a man couldn't sit in this room and be aslacker."

"No, he couldn't," Derry agreed. "You'd better hang out a recruitingsign, Drusilla."

"I should if they would let me. The best I can do is ask them to teaand sing for them."

It was right here that Bronson's message had broken in, and Derry,coming back from the telephone, had said, "Sing for me."

Drusilla lighted two red candles on the piano in the alcove. She beganwith a medley of patriotic songs. With her voice never soaring above arepressed note, she managed to give the effect of culminating emotion,so that when she reached a climax in the Marseillaise, Derry rose,thrilled, to his feet.

She whirled around and faced him. "They all do that," she said, with aglowing air Of triumph. "It's when I get them."

"Why did you give the Marseillaise last?"

"It has the tramp in it of marching men—I love it."

"But why not the 'Star Spangled Banner'?"

"That's for sacred moments. I hate to make it common—but I'll singit—now—"

Still standing, he listened. Drusilla held her voice to that low note,but there was the crash of battle in the music that she made, the hushof dawn, the cry of victory—

"Dear girl, you are a genius."

"No, I am not. But I can feel things—and I can make others feel—"

She rose and went to the window. "There's a new moon," she said, "comeand see—"

The curtains were not drawn, and the apartment was high up, so thatthey looked out beyond the hills to a sky in which the daylight bluehad faded to a faint green, and saw the little moon and one star.

"Derry," Drusilla said, softly. "Derry, why aren't you fighting?"

It was the question he had dreaded. He had seen it often in her eyes,but never before had she voiced it.

"I can't tell you, Drusilla, but there's a reason—a good one. Godknows I would go if I could."

The passion in his voice convinced her.

"Don't you know I'd be in it if I had my way. But I've got to stay onthe shelf like the tin soldier in the fairy tale. Do you remember,Drusilla? And people keep asking me—why?"

"I shouldn't have asked it, Derry?"

"You couldn't know. And you had a right to ask—everybody has aright—and I can't answer."

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "When I was a little girl," shesaid, softly, "I used to cry—because I was so sorry for the—tinsoldier—"

"Are you sorry for me, Drusilla?"

"Dreffly sorry."

They stood in silence among the shadows, with only the red candlesburning. Then Derry said, heartily, "You are the best friend that afellow ever had, Drusilla."

And that was as far as he would play the game!

CHAPTER IV

THE QUESTION

Whatever else might be said of General Drake, his Bacchanalianadventures were those of a gentleman. Not for him were the sinisterstreets and the sordid taverns of the town. When his wild moods cameupon him, he struck out straight for open country. Up hill and downdale he trudged, a knight of the road, finding shelter and refreshmentat wayside inns, or perchance at some friendly farm.

The danger lay in the lawless folk whom he might meet on the way.Unshaven and unshorn he met them, travelling endlessly along therailroad tracks, by highways, through woodland paths. They slept byday and journeyed by night. By reversing this program, the General asa rule avoided them. But not always, and when the little lad Derry hadfollowed his strange quests, he had come now and then upon his father,telling stories to an unsavory circle, lord for the moment of them all.

"Come, Dad," Derry would say, and when the men had growled a threat, hehad flung defiance at them. "My mother's motor is up the road with twomen in it. If I don't get back in five minutes they will follow me."

The General had always been tractable in the hands of his son. Headored him. It was only of late that he had found anything tocriticise.

Derry, driving along the old Conduit road in the crisp darkness,wondered how long that restless spirit would endure in that ageingbody. He shuddered as he thought of the two men who were hisfather—one a polished gentleman ruling his world, by the power of hiskeen mind and of his money, the other a self-made vagabond—pursuing anaimless course.

The stars were sharp in a sable sky, the river was a thin line ofsilver, the bills were blotted out.

Bronson was waiting by the big bridge. "He is singing down there," hesaid, "on the bank. Can you hear him?"

Leaning over the parapet, Derry listened. The quavering voice came upto him.

"_He has sounded forth the—trumpet—that shall never call—retreat—
He is sifting out the—hearts of men—before his judgment—
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! Be jubilant, my feet—'_"

Poor old soldier, beating time to the triumphant tune, stumbling overthe words—held pathetically to the memory of those days when he hadmarched in the glory of his youth, strength and spirit given to amighty cause!

The pity of it wrung Derry's heart. "Couldn't you do anything withhim, Bronson?"

"No, sir, I tried, but he sent me home. Told me I was discharged."

They might have laughed over that, but it was not the moment forlaughter. In the last twenty years, the General had discharged Bronsonmore than once, always without the least idea of being taken at hisword. To have lost this faithful servant would have broken his heart.

"I see. It won't do for you to show yourself just now. You'd bettergo home, and have his hot bath ready."

"Are you sure you can bring him, Mr. Derry?"

"Sure, Bronson, thank you."

Bronson walked a few steps and came back. "It is freezing cold, sir,you'd better take the rug from the car."

Laden thus, Derry made his way down. His flashlight revealed theGeneral, a humped-up figure on the bank of a little frozen stream.

"Go home, Derry," he said, as he recognized his son. "I want to sit bymyself."

His tone was truculent.

Derry attempted lightness. "You'll be a lump of ice in the morning,Dad. We'd have to chip you off in chunks."

"You go home with Bronson, son, He is up there. Go home—"

He had once commanded a brigade. There were moments when he was hardpushed that he remembered it.

"Go home, Derry."

"Not till you come with me."

"I'm not coming."

Derry spread his rug on the icy ground. "Sit on this and wrap up yourlegs—you'll freeze out here."

His father did not move. "I am puf-f*ckly comfa'ble."

The General rarely got his syllables tangled. Things at times happenedto his legs, but he usually controlled his tongue.

"I am puf-f*ckly comfa'ble—go home, Derry."

"I can't leave you, Dad."

"I want to be left."

He had never been quite like this. There had been moods of rebellion,but usually he had yielded himself to his son's guidance.

"Dad, be reasonable."

"I'd rather sit here and freeze—than go home with a—coward."

It was out at last. It struck Derry like a whiplash. He sprang to hisfeet. "You don't mean that, Dad. You can't mean it."

"I do mean it."

"I am not a coward, and you know it."

"Then why don't you go and fight?"

Silence! The only sound the chuckle of living waters beneath the iceof the little stream.

"Why don't you go and fight like other men?"

The emphasis was insulting. Derry had only one idea—to escape fromthat taunting voice. "You'll be sorry for this, Dad," he flung out atwhite heat, and scrambled up the bank.

When he reached the bridge, he paused. He couldn't leave that old mandown there to die of the cold—the wind was rising and rattled in thebare trees.

But Derry's blood was boiling. He sat down on the parapet, thickblackness all about him. Whatever had been his father's shortcomings,they had always clung together—and now they were separated by wordswhich had cut like a knife. It was useless to tell himself that hisfather was not responsible. Out of the heart the mouth had spoken.

And there were other people who felt as his father did—there had beenDrusilla's questions, the questions of others—there had been, too,averted faces. He saw the little figure in the cloak of heavenly blueas she had been the other night,—in her gray furs as she had been thismorning—; would her face, too, be turned from him?

Words formed themselves in his mind. He yearned to toss back at hisfather the taunt that was on his lips. To fling it over the parapet,to shout it to the world—!

He had never before felt the care of his father a sacrifice. There hadbeen humiliating moments, hard moments, but always he had beensustained by a sense of the rightness of the thing that he was doingand of its necessity.

Then, out of the darkness, came a shivering old voice, "Derry, are youthere?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Come down—and help me—"

The General, alone in the darkness, had suffered a reaction. He feltchilled and depressed. He wanted warmth and light.

Mounting steadily with his son's arm to sustain him, he arguedgarrulously for a sojourn at the nearest hostelry, or for a stop atChevy Chase. He would, he promised, go to bed at the Club, and thus berid of Bronson. Bronson didn't know his place, he would have to betaught—

Arriving at the top, he was led to Derry's car. He insisted on anunderstanding. If he got in, they were to stop at the Club.

"No," Derry said, "we won't stop. We are going home."

Derry had never commanded a brigade. But he had in him the blood ofone who had. He possessed also strength and determination backed atthe moment by righteous indignation. He lifted his father bodily, puthim in the car, took his seat beside him, shut the door, and drove off.He felt remarkably cheered as they whirled along at top speed.

The General, yielding gracefully to the inevitable, rolled himself upin the rugs, dropped his head against the padded cushions and, soothedby the warmth, fell asleep.

He waked to find himself being guided up his own stairway by Bronsonand the butler.

"Put him into a hot bath, Bronson," Derry directed from the thresholdof his father's room, and, the General, quite surprisingly, made noprotest. He had his bath, hot drinks to follow, and hot water bags inhis bed. When he drifted off finally, into uneasy dreams, he waswatched over by Bronson as if he had been a baby.

Derry, looking at his watch, was amazed to find that the evening wasyet early. He had lived emotionally through a much longer period thanthat marked by the clocks.

He had no engagements. He had found himself of late shrinking a littlefrom his kind. The clubs and the hotels were crowded with officers.Private houses, hung with service flags, paid homage to men in uniform.He was aware that he was, perhaps, unduly sensitive, but it was notpleasant to meet the inquiring glance, the guarded question. He waswelcomed outwardly as of old. But, then, he had a great deal of money.People did not like to offend his father's son. But if he had not beenhis father's son? What then?

He dined alone and in state in the great dining room. The portraits ofhis ancestors looked down on him. There was his mother's grandfather,who had the same fair hair and strongly marked brows. He had been anofficer in the English army, and wore the picturesque uniform of theperiod. There were other men in uniform—ancestors—.

But of what earthly use was an ancestor in uniform to the presentsituation? It would have been better to have inherited Quaker blood.Derry smiled whimsically as he thought how different he might have feltif there had been benignant men in gray with broad-brimmed hats,staring down.

But to grant a man an inheritance of fighting blood, and then deny himthe opportunity to exercise his birthright, was a sort of grim jokewhich he could not appreciate.

For dessert a great dish of fruit was set before him. He chose a peach!

Peaches in November! The men in the trenches had no peaches, nosquabs, no mushrooms, no avacados—for them bully beef and soup cubes,a handful of dates, or by good luck a bit of chocolate.

He left the peach untasted—he had a feeling that he might thus,vicariously, atone for the hardships of those others who fought.

After dinner he walked downtown. Passing Dr. McKenzie's house he wasconstrained to loiter. There were lights upstairs and down. Was JeanMcKenzie's room behind the two golden windows above the balcony? Wasshe there, or in the room below, where shaded lamps shone softly amongthe shadows?

He yearned to go in—to speak with her—to learn her thoughts—to readher heart and mind. As yet he knew only the message of her beauty. Hefancied her as having exquisite sensibility, sweetness, gentleness,perceptions as vivid as her youth and bloom.

The front door opened, and Jean and her father came out. Derry's heartleaped as he heard her laugh. Then her clear voice, "Isn't it awonderful night to walk, Daddy?" and her father's response, "Oh, youwith your ecstasies!"

They went briskly down the other side of the street. Derry foundhimself following, found himself straining his ear for that lightlaugh, found himself wishing that it were he who walked beside her,that her hand was tucked into his arm as it was tucked into herfather's.

Their destination was a brilliantly illumined palace on F Street, oncea choice little playhouse, now given over to screen productions. Thehouse was packed, and Jean and her father, following the flashlight ofthe usher, found harbor finally in a box to the left of the stage.Derry settled himself behind them. He was an eavesdropper and he knewit, but he was loath to get out of the range of that lovely laughter.

Yet observing the closeness of their companionship he felt himselflonely—they seemed so satisfied to be together—so sufficient withoutany other. Once Dr. McKenzie got up and went out. When he came backhe brought a box of candy. Derry heard Jean's "Oh, you darling—" andthrilled with a touch of jealousy.

He wondered a little that he should care—his experiences with womenhad heretofore formed gay incidents in his life rather than seriousepochs. He had carried in his heart a vision, and the girl in the ToyShop had seemed to make that vision suddenly real.

The play which was thrown on the screen had to do with France; withJoan of Arc and the lover who failed her, with the reincarnation of thelover and his opportunity, after long years, to redeem himself from theblot of cowardice.

In the stillness, Derry heard the quick-drawn breath of the girl infront of him. "Daddy, I should hate a man like that."

"But, my dear—"

"I should hate him, Daddy."

The play was over.

The lights went up, and Jean stood revealed. She was pinning on herhat. She saw Derry and smiled at him. "Daddy," she said, "it is Mr.Drake—you know him."

Dr. McKenzie held out his hand. "How do you do? So you young peoplehave met, eh?"

"In Emily's shop, Daddy. He—he came to buy my Lovely Dreams."

The two men laughed. "As if any man could buy your dreams, Jeanie,"her father said, "it would take the wealth of the world."

"Or no wealth at all," said Derry quickly.

They walked out together. As they passed the portal of the gildeddoor, Derry felt that the moment of parting had come.

"Oh, look here, Doctor," he said, desperately, "won't you and yourdaughter take pity on me—and join me at supper? There's dancing atthe Willard and all that—Miss McKenzie might enjoy it, and it would bea life-saver for me."

Light leaped into Jean's eyes. "Oh, Daddy—"

"Would you like it, dear?"

"You know I should. So would you. And you haven't any stupidpatients, have you?"

"My patients are always stupid, Drake, when they take me away from her.Otherwise she is sorry for them." He looked at his watch. "When I getto the hotel I'll telephone to Hilda, and she'll know where to find us."

It was the Doctor who talked as they went along—the two young peoplewere quite ecstatically silent. Jean was between her father and Derry.As he kept step with her, it seemed to him that no woman had everwalked so lightly; she laughed a little now and then. There was noneed for words.

While her father telephoned, they sat together for a moment in thecorridor. She unfastened her coat, and he saw her white dress andpearls. "Am I fine enough for an evening like this?" she asked him;"you see it is just the dress I wear at home."

"It seems to me quite a superlative frock—and I am glad that your hatis lined with blue."

"Why?"

"Your cloak last night was heavenly, and now this—it matches youreyes—"

"Oh." She sat very still.

"Shouldn't I have said that? I didn't think—"

"I am glad you didn't think—"

"Oh, are you?"

"Yes. I hate people who weigh their words—" The color came up finelyinto her cheeks.

When Dr. McKenzie returned, Derry found a table, and gave his order.

Jean refused to consider anything but an ice. "She doesn't eat at suchmoments," Doctor McKenzie told his young host. "She lives onstar-dust, and she wants me to live on star-dust. It is our onlyquarrel. She'll think me sordid because I am going to have broiledlobster."

Derry laughed, yet felt that it was after all a serious matter. Hisappetite, too, was gone. He too wanted only an ice! The Doctor'sorder was, however, sufficiently substantial to establish a balance.

"May I dance with her?" Derry asked, as the music brought the couplesto their feet.

"I don't usually let her. Not in a place like this. But her eyes arebegging—and I spoil her, Drake."

Curious glances followed the progress of the young millionaire and hispretty partner. But Derry saw nothing but Jean. She was likethistledown in his arms, she was saying tremendously interesting thingsto him, in her lovely voice.

"I cried all through the scene where Cinderella sits on the door-step.Yet it really wasn't so very sad—was it?"

"I think it was sad. She was such a little starved thing—starved forlove."

"Yes. It must be dreadful to be starved for love."

He glanced down at her. "You have never felt it?"

"No, except after my mother died—I wanted her—"

"My mother is dead, too."

The Doctor sat alone at the head of the table and ate his lobster; heate war bread and a green salad, and drank a pot of black coffee, andwas at peace with the world. Star-dust was all very well for thoseyoung things out there. He laughed as they came back to him. "Each tohis own joys—the lobster was very good, Drake."

They hardly heard him. Jean had a rosy parfait with a strawberry ontop. Derry had another.

They talked of the screen play, and the man who had failed. If he hadreally loved her he would not have failed, Jean said.

"I think he loved her," was Derry's opinion; "the spirit was willing,but the flesh was weak."

Jean shrugged. "Well, Fate was kind to him—to give him anotherchance. Oh, Daddy, tell him the story the little French woman told atthe meeting of the Medical Association."

"You should have heard her tell it—but I'll do my best. Her eloquencebrought us to our feet. It was when she was in Paris—just after theAmerican forces arrived. She stopped at the curb one morning to buyviolets of an ancient dame. She found the old flower vendorinattentive and, looking for the cause, she saw across the street ayoung American trooper loitering at a corner. Suddenly the old womansnatched up a bunch of lilies, ran across the street, thrust them intothe hands of the astonished soldier. 'Take them, American,' she said.'Take the lilies of France and plant them in Berlin.'"

"Isn't that wonderful?" Jean breathed.

"Everything is wonderful to her," the Doctor told Derry, "she lives onthe heights."

"But the lilies of France, Daddy—! Can't you see our men and thelilies of France?"

Derry saw them, indeed,—a glorious company—!

"Oh, if I were a man," Jean said, and stopped. She stole a timidglance at him. The question that he had dreaded was in her eyes.

They fell into silence. Jean finished her parfait. Derry's wasuntouched.

Then the music brought them again to their feet, and they danced. TheDoctor smoked alone. Back of him somebody murmured, "It is DerryDrake."

"Confounded slacker," said a masculine voice. Then came a warning"Hush," as Derry and Jean returned.

"It is snowing," Derry told the Doctor. "I have ordered my car."

Late that night when the Doctor rode forth again alone in his own caron an errand of mercy, he thought of the thing which he had heard.Then came the inevitable question: why wasn't Derry Drake fighting?

CHAPTER V

THE SLACKER

It was at the Witherspoon dinner that Jean McKenzie first heard thethings that were being said about Derry.

"I can't understand," someone had remarked, "why Derry Drake is stayingout of it."

"I fancy he'll be getting in," Ralph Witherspoon had said. "Derry's noslacker."

Ralph could afford to be generous. He was in the Naval Flying Corps.He looked extremely well in his Ensign's uniform, and he knew it; hewas hoping, in the spring, for active service on the other side.

"I don't see why Derry should fight. I don't see why any man should.I never did believe in getting into other people's fusses."

It was Alma Drew who said that. Nobody took Alma very seriously. Shewas too pretty with her shining hair and her sea-green eyes, and herway of claiming admiration.

Jean had recognised her when she first came in as the girl she had seendescending from her motor car with Derry Drake on the night of theSecretary's dinner. Alma again wore the diamond-encrusted comb. Shewas in sea-green, which matched her eyes.

"If I were a man," Alma pursued, "I should run away."

There was a rustle of uneasiness about the table. In the morningpapers had been news of Italy—disturbing news; news fromRussia—Kerensky had fled to Moscow—there had been pictures of our menin gas masks! It wasn't a thing to joke about. Even Alma might go toofar.

Ralph relieved the situation. "Oh, no, you wouldn't run away," hesaid; "you don't do yourself justice, Alma. Before you know it youwill be driving a car over there, and picking me up when I fall fromthe skies."

"Well, that would be—compensation—." Alma's lashes flashed up andfluttered down.

But she turned her batteries on Ralph in vain. Jean McKenzie was onthe other side of him. It would never be quite clear to him why heloved Jean. She was neither very beautiful nor very brilliant. Butthere was a dearness about her. He hardly dared think of it. It hadgone very deep with him.

He turned to her. Her eyes were blazing. "Oh," she said, under herbreath, "how can she say things like that? If I knew a man who wouldrun away, I'd never speak to him."

"Of course. That's why I fell in love with you—because you had redblood in your veins."

It was the literal truth. The first time that Ralph had seen JeanMcKenzie, he had been riding in Rock Creek Park. She, too, was onhorseback. It was in April. War had just been declared, and there wasgreat excitement. Jean, taking the bridle path over the hills, hadcome upon a band of workers. A long-haired and seditious orator wastalking to them. Jean had stopped her horse to listen, and before sheknew it she was answering the arguments of the speaker. Rising alittle in her stirrups, her riding-crop uplifted to emphasize herburning words, her cheeks on fire, her eyes shining, her hair blowingunder her three-cornered hat, she had clearly and crisply challengedthe patriotism of the speaker, and she had presented to Ralph'sappreciative eyes a picture which he was never to forget.

She had not been in the least embarrassed by his arrival, and hisuniform had made him seem at once her ally. "I am sure this gentlemanwill be glad to talk to you," she had said to her little audience."I'll leave the field to him," and with a nod and a smile she hadridden off, the applause of the men following her.

Ralph, having put the long-haired one to rout, had asked the men ifthey knew the young lady who had talked to them. They had, it seemed,seen her riding with Dr. McKenzie. They thought she was his daughter.It had been easy enough after that to find Jean on his mother'svisiting list. Mrs. Witherspoon and Mrs. McKenzie had exchanged callsduring the life-time of the latter, but they had lived in differentcircles. Mrs. Witherspoon had aspired to smartness and to thefriendship of the new people who brought an air of sophistication tothe staid and sedate old capital. Mrs. McKenzie had held to oldassociations and to old ideals.

Mrs. Witherspoon was a widow and charming. Dr. McKenzie was a widowerand an addition to any dinner table. In a few weeks the oldacquaintance had been renewed. Ralph had wooed Jean ardently duringthe short furloughs which had been granted him, and from long distancehad written a bit co*cksurely. He had sent flowers, candy, books andthen, quite daringly; a silver trench ring.

Jean had sent the ring back. "It was dear of you to give it to me, butI can't keep it."

"Why not?" he had asked when he next saw her.

"Because—"

"Because is no reason."

She had blushed, but stood firm. She was very shy—totallyunawakened—a little dreaming girl—with all of real life ahead ofher—with her innocence a white flower, her patriotism a red one. Ifonly he might wear that white and red above his heart.

As a matter of fact, Jean resented, sub-consciously, his air ofpossession, the certainty with which he seemed to see the end of hiswooing.

"You can't escape me," he had told her.

"As if I were a rabbit," she had complained afterwards to her father."When I marry a man I don't want to be caught—I want to run to him,with my arms wide open."

"Don't," her father advised; "not many men would be able to stand it.Let them worship you, Jeanie, don't worship."

Jean stuck her nose in the air. "Falling in love doesn't come the wayyou want it. You have to take it as the good Lord sends it."

"Who told you that?"

"Emily—"

"What does Emily know of love?"

He had laughed and patted her hand. He was cynical generally aboutromance. He felt that his own perfect love affair with his wife hadbeen the exception. He looked upon Emily as a sentimental spinster whoknew practically nothing of men and women.

He did not realize that Emily knew a great deal about dolls thatlaughed and cried when you pulled a string. And that the world inEmily's Toy Shop was not so very different from his own.

Alma, having turned a cold shoulder to Ralph, was still proclaiming heropinion of Derry Drake to the rest of the table. "He is rich and youngand he doesn't want to die—"

"There are plenty of rich young men dying, Alma," said Mrs.Witherspoon, "and it is probably as easy for them as for the poorones—"

"The poor ones won't mind being muddy and dirty in the trenches," saidAlma, "but I can't fancy Derry Drake without two baths a day—"

"I can't quite fancy him a slacker." There was a hint of satisfactionin Mrs. Witherspoon's voice. Her son and Derry Drake had gone toschool together and to college. Derry had outdistanced Ralph in everyway; but now it was Ralph who was leaving Derry far behind.

Jean wished that they would stop talking. She felt as she might hadshe seen a soldier stripped of sword and stripes and shamed in the eyesof his fellows.

"Wasn't he in the draft?" she asked Ralph.

"Too old. He doesn't look it, does he? It's a bit hard for the restof us fellows to understand why he keeps out—"

"Doesn't he ever try to—explain?"

Ralph shook his head. "Not a word. And he's beginning to stay awayfrom things. You see, he knows that people are asking questions, andyou hear what they are calling him?"

"Yes," said Jean, "a coward."

"Well, not exactly that—"

"There isn't much difference, is there?"

And now Alma's cool voice summed up the situation. "A man with as muchmoney as that doesn't have to be brave. What does he care about publicopinion? After the war everybody will forgive and forget."

Coolly she challenged them to contradict her. "You all know it. Howmany of you would dare cut the fellow who will inherit his father'smillions?"

Mrs. Witherspoon tried to laugh it off; but it was true, and Alma wasright. They might talk about Derry Drake behind his back, but they'dnever omit sending a card to him.

Jean ate her duckling in flaming silence, ate her salad, ate her ice,drank her coffee, and was glad when the meal ended.

The war from the beginning had been for her a sacred cause. She hadyearned to be a man that she might stand in the forefront of battle.She had envied the women of Russia who had formed a Battalion of Death.Her father had laughed at her. "You'd be like a white kitten in a dogfight."

It seemed intolerable that tongues should be busy with this talk ofyoung Drake's cowardice. He had seemed something so much more thanthat. And he was a man—with a man's right to leadership. What wasthe matter with him?

The night before she had slept little—Derry's voice—Derry's eyes!She had gone over every word that he had said. She had risen early inthe morning to write in her memory book, and she had drawn a mostentrancing border about the page, with melting strawberry ice, liliesof France, Cinderella slippers, and red-ink lobsters, rathernightmarishly intermingled!

He had seemed so fine—so—she fell back on her much overworked wordwonderful—her heart had run to meet him, and now—it would have torun back again. How silly she had been not to see.

After dinner they danced in the Long Room, which was rather famous froma decorative point of view. It was medieval in effect, with a balconyand tapestries, and some precious bits of armor. There was a lion-skinflung over the great chair where Mrs. Witherspoon was enthroned.

Between dances, Jean and Ralph sat on the balcony steps, and talked ofmany things which brought the red to Jean's cheeks, and a troubledlight into her eyes.

And it was from the balcony-steps that, as the evening waned, she sawDerry Drake standing in the great arched doorway.

There was a black velvet curtain behind him which accentuated hisfairness. He did not look nineteen. Jean had a fleeting vision of acertain steel engraving of the "Princes in the Tower" which had hung inher grandmother's house. Derry was not in the least like those lovelyimprisoned boys, yet she had an overwhelming sense of his kinship tothem.

As young Drake's eyes swept the room, he was aware of Jean on thebalcony steps. She was in white and silver, with a touch of thatheavenly blue which seemed to belong to her. Her crinkled hair wascombed quaintly over her ears and back from her forehead. He smiled ather, but she apparently did not see him.

He made his way to Mrs. Witherspoon. "I was so sorry to get here late.But my other engagements kept me. If I could have dined at two places,you should have had at least a half of me."

"We wanted the whole. You know Dr. McKenzie, Derry?"

The two men shook hands. "May I dance with your daughter?" Derry said,smiling.

"Of course. She is up there on the stairs."

Jean saw him coming. Ever since Derry had stood in the door she hadbeen trying to make up her mind how she would treat him when he came.Somebody ought to show him that his millions didn't count. She hadn'tthought of his millions last night. If he had been just the shabby boyof the Toy Shop, she would have liked his eyes just as much, and hisvoice!

But a slacker was a slacker! A coward was a coward! All the money inthe world couldn't take away the stain. A man who wouldn't fight atthis moment for the freedom of the world was a renegade! She wouldhave none of him.

He came on smiling. "Hello, Ralph. Miss McKenzie, your father saysyou may dance with me—I hope you have something left?"

The blood sang in her ears, her cheeks burned.

"I haven't anything left—for you—" The emphasis was unmistakable.

[Illustration: "I haven't anything left for you."]

Even then he did not grasp what had happened to him. "Ralph will letme have one of his—be a good sport, Ralph."

"Well, I like that," Ralph began. Then Jean's crisp voice stopped him."I am not going to dance any more—my head aches. I—I shall ask Daddyto take me—home—"

It was all very young and obvious. Derry gave her a puzzled stare.Ralph protested. "Oh, look here, Jean. If you think you aren't goingto dance any more with me."

"Well, I'm not. I am going home. Please take me down to Daddy."

It seemed a long time before the blurred good-byes were said, and Jeanwas alone with her father in the cozy comfort of the closed car.

"Do you love me, Daddy?"

"My darling, yes."

"May I live with you always—to the end of my days?"

He chuckled. "So that was it? Poor Ralph!"

"You know you are not sorry for him, Daddy. Don't be a hypocrite."

He drew her close to him. "I should be sorry for myself if he took youfrom me."

She clung to him. "He is not going to take me away."

"Was that what you were telling him on the balcony stairs?"

"Yes. And he said I was too young to know my own mind. That I was asleeping Princess—and some day he would wake me—up—"

"Oh."

"And he is not the Prince, Daddy. There isn't any Prince."

She had shut resolutely away from her the vision of Derry Drake as shehad seen him on the night of Cinderella. She would have nowhite-feathered knight! Princes were brave and rode to battle!

CHAPTER VI

THE PROMISE

It was Alma who gave Derry Drake the key to Jean's conduct.

"Did your ears burn?" she asked, as they danced together after Jean andher father had gone.

"When?"

"We were talking about you at dinner."

"I hope you said nice things."

"I did, of course." Her lashes flashed up and fluttered down as theyhad flashed and fluttered for Ralph. Every man was for Alma a possibleconquest. Derry was big game, and as yet her little darts had notpierced him. She still hoped, however. "I did, but the rest didn't."

He shrank from the things which she might tell him. "What did theysay?" His voice caught.

"I shan't tell you. But it was about the war, and your not fighting.As if it made any difference. You are as brave as any of them."

He glanced down at her with somber eyes. Quite unreasonably he hatedher for her defense of him. If all women defended men who wouldn'tfight, what kind of a world would it be? Women who were worth anythinggirded their men for battle.

He knew now the reason for Jean's high head and burning cheeks, and inspite of his sense of agonizing humiliation, he was glad to think ofthat high-held head.

For such women, for such women men died!

But not for women like Alma Drew!

He got away from her as soon as possible. He got away from them all.He had a morbid sense of whispering voices and of averted glances. Hefancied that Mrs. Witherspoon touched his hand coldly as he bade her"good-night."

Well, he would not come again until he could meet their eyes.

It was a perfectly clear night, and he walked home. With his faceturned up to the stars, he told himself that the situation wasintolerable—tomorrow morning, he would go to his father.

When he reached home, his father was asleep. Derry looked in on himand found Bronson sitting erect and wide-eyed beside a night lamp whichthrew the rest of the room into a sort of golden darkness. The Generalwas in a great lacquered bed which he had brought with him years agofrom China. Gilded dragons guarded it and princes had slept in it.Heavy breathing came from the bed.

"I think he has caught cold, sir," Bronson whispered. "I'm a bitafraid of bronchitis."

Derry's voice lacked sympathy. "I shouldn't worry, Bronson. Heusually comes around all right."

"Yes, sir. I hope so, sir," and Bronson's spare figure rose to aportentous shadow, as he preceded Derry to the door.

On the threshold he said, "Dr. Richards has gone to the front. Shall Icall Dr. McKenzie if we need someone—?"

"Has he been left in charge?"

"Yes, sir."

Derry stood for a moment undecided. "I suppose there's no reason whyyou shouldn't call McKenzie. Do as you think best, Bronson."

On his way to his own room, Derry paused for a moment at the head ofthe great stairway. His mother's picture hung on the landing. Thedress in which she was painted had been worn to a dinner at the WhiteHouse during the first Cleveland Administration. It was of whitebrocade, with its ostrich feather trimming making it a rather regalrobe. It had tight sleeves, and the neck was square. Around herthroat was a wide collar of pearls with diamond slides. Her fair hairwas combed back in the low pompadour of the period, and there wereround flat curls on her temples. The picture was old-fashioned, butthe painted woman was exquisite, as she had always been, as she wouldalways be in Derry's dreams.

The great house had given to the General's wife her proper setting.She had trailed her satins and silks up and down the marble stairway.Her slender hands, heavy with their rings, had rested on itsbalustrade, its mirrors had reflected the diamond tiara with which theGeneral had crowned her. In the vast drawing room, the gold and jadeand ivory treasures in the cabinets had seemed none too fine for thisgreatest treasure of them all. In the dining room the pricelessporcelains had been cheapened by her greater worth. The General hadtravelled far and wide, and he had brought the wealth of the world tolay at the feet of his young wife. He adored her and he adored her son.

"It is just you and me, Derry," the old man had said in the firstmoment of bereavement; "we've got to stick it out together—"

And they had stuck it out until the war had come, and patriotism hadflared, and the staunch old soldier had spurned this—changeling.

It seemed to Derry that if his mother could only step down from thepicture she might make things right for him. But she would not stepdown. She would go on smiling her gentle painted smile as if nothingreally mattered in the whole wide world.

Thus, with his father asleep in the lacquered bed, and his mothersmiling in her gilded frame, the son stood alone in the great shell ofa house which had in it no beating heart, no throbbing soul to answerhis need.

Derry's rooms were furnished in a lower key than those in which hisfather's taste had been followed. There were gray rugs and gray walls,some old mahogany, the snuff-box picture of Napoleon over his desk, adog-basket of brown wicker in a corner.

Muffin, Derry's Airedale, stood at attention as his master came in. Heknew that the length of his sojourn depended on his manners.

A bright fire was burning, a long chair slanted across the hearthrug.Derry got into a gray dressing gown and threw himself into the chair.Muffin, with a solicitous sigh, sat tentatively on his haunches. Hismaster had had no word for him. Things were very bad indeed, whenDerry had no word for his dog.

At last it came. "Muffin—it's a rotten old world."

Muffin's tail beat the rug. His eager eyes asked for more.

It came—"Rotten."

Derry made room among the pillows, and Muffin curled up beside him inrapturous silence. The fire snapped and flared, flickered and died.Bronson tiptoed in to ask if Derry wanted him. Young Martin, whovaleted Derry when Bronson would let him, followed with more proffersof assistance.

Derry sent them both away. "I am going to bed."

But he did not go to bed. He read a letter which his mother hadwritten before she died. He had never broken the seal until now. Foron the outside of the envelope were these words in fine femininescript: "Not to be opened until the time comes when my boy Derry istempted to break his promise."

It began, "Boy dear—"

"I wonder if I shall make you understand what it is so necessary thatyou should understand? It has been so hard all of these years whenyour clear little lad's eyes have looked into mine to feel that someday you might blame—me. Youth is so uncompromising, Derry, dear—andso logical—so demanding of—justice. And life isn't logical—orjust—not with the sharp-edged justice which gives cakes to the goodlittle boys and switches to the bad ones. And you have always insistedon the cakes and switches, Derry, and that's why I am afraid of you.

"Even when you were only ten and I hugged you close in the night—thosenights when we were alone, Derry, and your father was out on some wildroad under the moonlight, or perhaps with the snow shutting out themoon, you used to whisper, 'But he oughtn't to do it, Mother—' And Iknew that he ought not, but, oh, Derry, I loved him, and do youremember, I used to say, 'But he's so good to us, Laddie,—and perhapswe can love him enough to make him stop.'

"But you are a man now, Derry. I am sure you will be a man before youread this, for my little boy will obey me until he comes to man'sestate, and then he may say 'She was only a foolish loving woman, andwhy should I be bound?'

"I know when that moment comes that all your father's money will nothold you. You will not sell your soul's honor for your inheritance.Haven't I known it all along? Haven't I seen you a little shiningknight ready to do battle for your ideals? And haven't I seen theclash of those ideals with the reality of your father's fault?

"Well, there's this to think of now, Derry, now that you are aman—that life isn't white and black, it isn't sheep and goats—itisn't just good people and bad people with a great wall between. Lifeis gray and amethyst, it is a touch of dinginess on the fleece of thewhole flock, and the men and women whom you meet will be those whosegreat faults are balanced by great virtues and whose little meannessesare contradicted by unexpected generosities.

"I am putting it this way because I want you to realize that except forthe one fault which has shadowed your father's life, there is no flawin him. Other men have gone through the world apparently untouched byany temptation, but their families could tell you the story of athousand tyrannies, their clerks could tell you of selfishness andhardness, their churches and benevolent societies could tell you oftheir lack of charity. Oh, there are plenty of good men in the world,Derry, strong and fine and big, I want you to believe that always, butI want you to believe, too, that there are men who struggle continuallywith temptation and seem to fail, but they fight with an enemy soformidable that I, who have seen the struggle, have shut myeyes—afraid to look—.

"And now I shall go back to the very beginning, and tell you how it allhappened. Your father was only a boy when the Civil War broke out. Hecame down from Massachusetts with a regiment which had in it the bloodof the farmers who fired the shot heard round the world—. He feltthat he was fighting for Freedom—he had all of your ideals, Derry;plus, perhaps, a few of his own.

"You know how the war dragged, four years of it—and much of the timethat Massachusetts regiment was in swamp and field, on the edge offever-breeding streams, never very well fed, cold in winter, hot insummer.

"They were given for medicine quinine and—whiskey. It kept themalive. Sometimes it kept them warm, sometimes it lifted them abovereality and granted them a moment's reckless happiness.

"It was all wrong, of course. I am making no plea for its rightness;and it unchained wild beasts in some of the men. Your father for manyyears kept his chained, but the beasts were there.

"He was almost fifty when I married him, and he was not a General.That title was given to him during the Spanish War. I was twenty whenI came here a bride. There was no deception on your father's part. Hetold me of the dragon he fought—he told me that he hoped with God'shelp and mine to conquer. And I hoped, too, Derry. I did more thanthat. I was so sure of him—my King could do no wrong.

"But the day came when he went on one of those desolate pilgrimageswhere you and I so often followed in later years. I am not going totry to tell you how we fought together, Derry; how I learned with suchagony of soul that a man's will is like wax in the fire oftemptation—oh, Derry, Derry—.

"I am telling you this for more reasons than one. What your father hasbeen you might be. With all your ideals there may be in you someheritage of weakness, of appetite. Wild beasts can conquer you, too,if you let them in. And that's why I have preached and prayed. That'swhy I've kept you from that which overcame your father. You are nobetter, no stronger, than he was in the glory of his youth. But I havebarred the doors against the flaming dragon.

"I have no words eloquent enough to tell you of his care of me, hisconsideration, his devotion. Yet nothing of all this helped in thosestrange moods that came upon him. Then you were forgotten, I wasforgotten, the world was forgotten, and he let everything go—.

"I have kept what I have suffered to some extent from the world. Ifpeople have pitied they have had the grace at least not to let me see.The tragedy has been that you should have been sacrificed to it, youryouth shadowed. But what could I do? I felt that you must know, mustsee, and I felt, too, that the salvation of the father might beaccomplished through the son.

"And so I let you go out into the night after him, I let you know thatwhich should, perhaps, have been hidden from you. But I loved him,Derry—I loved you—I did the best I could for both of you.

"And now because of the past, I plead for the future. I want you tostay with him, Derry. No matter what happens I beg that you willstay—for the sake of the boy who was once like you, for the sake ofthe man who held your mother always close to his heart, for the sake ofthe mother who in Heaven holds you to your promise."

The great old house was very still. Somewhere in a shadowed room anold man slept heavily with his servant sitting stiff and straightbeside him, at the head of the stairway a painted bride smiled in thedarkness, the dog Muffin stirred and whined.

Derry's head was buried deep in the cushion. His hands clutched theletter which had cut the knot of his desperate decision.

No—one could not break a promise to a mother in Heaven.…

He waked heavily in the morning. Bronson was beside his bed. "I amsorry to disturb you, sir, but Dr. McKenzie would like to speak to you."

"McKenzie?"

"Yes, sir. I had to call him last night. Your father was worse."

"Bring him right in here, Bronson, and have some coffee for us."

When Dr. McKenzie was ushered into Derry's sitting room, he found arather pale and languid young man in the long chair.

"I hated to wake you, Drake. But it was rather necessary that I shouldtalk your father's case over with you."

"Is he very ill?"

"It isn't that—there are complications that I don't care to discusswith servants."

"You mean he has been drinking?"

"Yes. Heavily. You realize that's a rather serious thing for a man ofhis age."

"I know it. But there's nothing to be done."

"What makes you say that?"

"We've tried specialists—cures. I've been half around the world withhim."

The Doctor nodded. "It's hard to pull up at that age."

"My mother's life was spent in trying to help him. He's a dear oldchap, really."

"There is, of course, the possibility that he may get a grip onhimself."

Derry's languor left him. "Do you think there's the least hope of it?Frankly? No platitudes?"

"We are making some rather interestingexperiments—psycho-analysis—things like that—"

He stood up. He was big and breezy. "What's the matter with you thismorning? You ought to be up and out."

Derry flushed. "Nothing—much."

The Doctor sat down again. "I'd tell most men to take a cold showerand a two hours' tramp, but it's more than that with you—."

"It's a ease of suspended activity. I want to get into the war—"

"Why don't you?"

"I can't leave Dad. Surely you can see that."

"I don't see it. He must reap, every man must."

"But there's more than that. My mother tied me by a promise. Andpeople are calling me a coward—even Dad thinks I am a slacker, and Ican't say to him, 'If you were more than the half of a man I might be awhole one.'"

"Your mother couldn't have foreseen this war."

"It would have made no difference. Her world was centered in him. Youknow, of course, Doctor, that I wouldn't have spoken of this to anyoneelse—"

"My dear fellow, I am father confessor to half of my patients." TheDoctor's eyes were kind. "My lips will be sealed. But if you want myadvice I should throw the old man overboard. Let him sink or swim.Your life is your own."

"It has never been my own." He went to a desk and took out anenvelope. "It's a rather sacred letter, but I want you to read it—Iread it for the first time last night."

When at last the Doctor laid the letter down, Derry said very low, "Doyou blame me?"

"My dear fellow; she had no right to ask it."

"But having asked—?"

"It is a moving letter, and you loved her—but I still contend she hadno right to ask."

"I gave my sacred word."

"I question whether any promise should stand between a man and hiscountry's need of him."

They faced each other. "I wonder—" Derry said, "I—I must think itover, Doctor."

"Give yourself a chance if you do. We can go too far in our sacrificefor others—." He resumed his brisk professional manner. "In themeantime you've a rather sick old gentleman on your hands. You'dbetter get a nurse."

CHAPTER VII

HILDA

The argument came up at breakfast two days before Thanksgiving. It wasa hot argument. Jean beat her little hands upon the table. Hilda'shands were still, but it was an irritating stillness.

"What do you think, Daddy?"

"Hilda is right. There is no reason why we should go to extremes."

"But a turkey—."

"Nobody has said that we shouldn't have a turkey on Thanksgiving—noteven Hoover." Hilda's voice was as irritating as her hands.

"Well, we have consciences, Hilda. And a turkey would choke me."

"You make so much of little things."

"Is it a little thing to sacrifice our appetites?"

"I don't think it is a very big thing." The office bell rang, andHilda rose. "If I felt as you do I should sacrifice something morethan things to eat. I'd go over there and nurse the wounded. I couldbe of real service. But you couldn't. With all your big ideas ofpatriotism you couldn't do one single practical thing."

It was true, and Jean knew that it was true, but she fired one moreshot. "Then why don't you go?" she demanded fiercely.

"I may," Hilda said slowly. "I have been thinking about it. I haven'tmade up my mind."

Dr. McKenzie glanced at her in surprise. "I didn't dream you felt thatway."

"I don't think I do mean it in the way you mean. I should go becausethere was something worth doing—not as a grandstand play."

She went out of the room. Jean stared after her.

The Doctor laughed. "She got you there, girlie."

"Yes, she did. Do you really think she intends to go, Daddy?"

"It is news to me."

"Good news?"

He shook his head. "She is a very valuable nurse. I should hate tolose her." He sat for a moment in silence, then stood up. "Ishouldn't hold out for a turkeyless Thanksgiving if I were you. Itisn't necessary."

"Are you taking Hilda's part, Daddy?"

"No, my dear, of course not." He came over and kissed her. "Will youride with me this morning?"

"Oh, yes—how soon?"

"In ten minutes. After I see this patient."

In less time than that she was ready and waiting for him in hersquirrel coat and hat and her little muff.

Her father surveyed her. "Such a lovely lady."

"Do you like me, Daddy?"

"What a question—I love you."

Safe in the car, with the glass screen shutting away the chauffeur,Jean returned to the point of attack.

"Hilda makes me furious, Daddy. I came to talk about her."

"I thought you came because you wanted to ride with me."

"Well, I did. But for this, too."

Over her muff, her stormy eyes surveyed him. "You think I amunreasonable about meatless and wheatless days. But you don't know.Hilda ignores them, Daddy—you should see the breadbox. And the otherday she ordered a steak for dinner, one of those big thick ones—and itwas Tuesday, and I happened to go down to the kitchen and saw it—and Itold the cook that we wouldn't have it, and when I came up I toldHilda, and she laughed and said that I was silly.

"And I said that if she had that steak cooked I would not eat it, and Ishould ask you not to eat it, and she just stood with her hands flat onyour desk, you know the way she does—I hate her hands—and she saidthat of course if I was going to make a fuss about it she wouldn't havethe steak, but that it was simply a thing she couldn't understand. Thesteak was there, why not eat it? And I said it was because of thepsychological effect on other people. And she said we were having toomuch psychology and not enough common sense in this war!

"Well, after that, I went to my Red Cross meeting at the church. Iexpected to have lunch there, but I changed my mind and came home.Hilda was at the table alone, and, Daddy, she was eating the steak, thewhole of it—." She paused to note the effect of her revelation.

"Well?"

"She was eating it when all the world needs food! She made me think ofthose dreadful creatures in the fairy books. She's—she's a ghoul—"

"My dear."

"A ghoul. You should have seen her, with great chunks of bread andbutter."

"Hilda has a healthy appetite."

"Of course you defend her."

"My dear child—"

"Oh you do, Daddy, always, against me—and I'm your daughter—"

She wept a tear or two into her muff, then raised her eyes to find himregarding her quizzically. "Are you going to spoil my ride?"

"You are spoiling mine."

"We won't quarrel about it. And we'll stop at Small's. Shall it beroses or violets, to-day, my dear?"

She chose violets, as more in accord with her pensive mood, lightingthe bunch, however, with one red rose. The question of Hilda was notsettled, but she yielded as many an older woman has yielded—to thesweetness of tribute—to man's impulse to make things right not byjustice but by the bestowal of his bounty.

From the florist's, they went to Huyler's old shop on F Street, wherethe same girl had served Jean with ice-cream sodas and hot chocolatefor fifteen years. Administrations might come and administrations go,but these pleasant clerks had been cup-bearers to them all—Presidents'daughters and diplomats' sons—the sturdy children of plainCongressmen, the scions of noble families across the seas.

It was while Jean sat on a high stool beside her father, the sunshineshining on her through the wide window, that Derry Drake, coming downTwelfth, saw her!

Well, he wanted a lemonade. And the fact that she was there in a graysquirrel coat and bunch of violets with her copper-colored hair shiningover her ears wasn't going to leave him thirsty!

He went in. He bowed to the Doctor and received a smile in return.Jean's eyes were cold above her chocolate. Derry bought his check,went to a little table on the raised platform at the back of the room,drank his lemonade and hurried out.

"A nice fellow," said the Doctor, watching him through the window. "Iwonder why he didn't stop and speak to us?"

"I'm glad he didn't."

"My dear, why?"

"I've found out things—"

"What things?"

"That he's a—coward," with tense earnestness. "He won't fight."

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody's saying it."

"Everybody is dead wrong."

"What do you mean, Daddy?"

"What I have just said. Everybody is dead wrong."

"How do you know?"

"A doctor knows a great many things which he is not permitted to tell.I am rather bound not to tell in this case."

"Oh, but you could tell me."

"Hardly—it was given in confidence."

"Did he? Oh, Daddy, did he tell you?"

"Yes."

"And he isn't a slacker?"

"No."

"I knew it—."

"You didn't. You thought he was a coward."

"Well, I ought to have known better. He looks brave, doesn't he?"

"I shouldn't call him exactly a heroic figure."

"Shouldn't you?"

She finished her chocolate in silence, and followed him in silence tohis car. They sped up F Street, gay with its morning crowd.

Then at last it came. "Isn't it a wonderful day, Daddy?"

He smiled down at her. "There you go."

"Well, it is wonderful." She fell again into silence, then againbestowed upon him her raptures. "Wouldn't it be dreadful if we hadloveless days, Daddy, as well as meatless ones and wheatless?"

That night, after Jean had gone to bed, the Doctor, having dismissedhis last patient, came out of his inner office. Hilda, in her whitenurse's costume, was busy with the books. He stood beside her desk.His eyes were dancing. "Jean told me about the steak."

"I knew she would—I suppose it was an awful thing to do. But I washungry, and I hate fish—" She smiled at him lazily, then laughed.

He laughed back. He felt that it would be unbearable for Hilda to gohungry, to spoil her red and white with abstinence.

"My dear girl," he said, "what did you mean when you spoke of goingaway?"

"Haven't you been thinking of going?"

The color came up in his cheeks. "Yes, but how did you know it?"

"Well, a woman knows. Why don't you make up your mind?"

"There's Jean to think of."

"Emily Bridges could take care of her. And you ought to go. Men areseeing things over there that they'll never see again. And women are."

"If my country needs me—"

Hilda was cold. "I shouldn't go for that. As I told Jean, I am notmaking any grand stand plays. I should go for all that I get out ofit, the experience, the adventure—."

He looked at her with some curiosity. Jean's words of the afternoonrecurred to him. "She's a ghoul—"

Yet there was something almost fascinating in her frankness. She toreaside ruthlessly the curtain of self-deception, revealing her motives,as if she challenged him to call them less worthy than his own.

"If I go, it will be because I want to become a better nurse. I likeit here, but your practice is necessarily limited. I should get awider view of things. So would you. There would be new worlds ofdisease, men in all conditions of nervous shock."

"I know. But I'd hate to think I was going merely for selfish ends."

She shrugged. "Why not that as well as any other?"

He had a smouldering sense of irritation.

"When I am with Jean she makes me feel rather big and fine; when I amwith you—" He paused.

"I make you see yourself as you are, a man. She thinks you are morethan that."

All his laughter left ham. "It is something to be a hero to one'sdaughter. Perhaps some day I shall be a little better for her thinkingso."

She saw that she had gone too far. "You mustn't take the things I saytoo seriously."

The bell of the telephone at her elbow whirred. She put the receiverto her ear. "It is General Drake's man; he thinks you'd better comeover before you go to bed."

"I was afraid I might have to go. He is in rather bad shape, Hilda."

She packed his bag for him competently, and telephoned for his car."I'll have a cup of coffee ready for you when you get back," she said,as she stood in the door. "It is going to be a dreadful night."

The streets were icy and the sleet falling. "You'd better have yourovershoes," Hilda decided, and went for them.

As he put them on, she stood under the hall light, smiling. "Have youforgiven me?" she asked as he straightened up.

"For telling me the truth? Of course. You take such good care of me,Hilda."

Upstairs in her own room Jean was writing a letter. It was a verypretty room, very fresh and frilly with white dimity and with much pinkand pale lavender. The night-light which shone through the rosetaffeta petticoats of a porcelain lady was supplemented at the momentby a bed-side lamp which flung a ring of gold beyond Jean's blotter tothe edge of the lace spread. For Jean was writing in bed. All day hermind had been revolving around this letter, but she had had no time towrite. She had spent the afternoon in the Toy Shop with Emily, and inthe evening there had been a Red Cross sale. She had gone to the salewith Ralph Witherspoon and his mother. She had not been able to getout of going. All the time she had talked to Ralph she had thought ofDerry. She had rather hoped that he might be there, but he wasn't.

The letter required much thought. She tore up, extravagantly, severalsheets of note-paper with tiny embossed thistles at the top. DoctorMcKenzie was intensely Scotch, and he was entitled to a crest, but hewas also intensely American, and would have none of it. He haddesigned Jean's note-paper, and it was lovely. But it was alsoexpensive, and it was a shame to waste so much of it on Derry Drake.

The note when it was finished seemed very simple. Just one page inJean's firm, clear script:

"Dear Mr. Drake:—

"Could you spare me one little minute tomorrow? I shall be at home atfour. It is very important—to me at least. Perhaps when you hearwhat I have to say, it will seem important to you. I hope it may.

"Very sincerely yours,
"JEAN MCKENZIE."

She read it over several times. It seemed very stiff and inadequate.She sealed it and stamped it, then in a panic tore it open for are-reading. She was oppressed by doubts. Did nice girls ask men tocome and see them? Didn't they wait and weary like Mariana of theMoated Grange—? "He cometh not, she said?"

New times! New manners! She had branded a man as a coward. She hadcondemned him unheard. She had slighted him, she had listened whileothers slandered—why should she care what other women had done? Woulddo? Her way was clear. She owed an apology to Derry Drake, and shewould make it.

So with a new envelope, a new stamp, the note was again sealed.

It had to be posted that night. She felt that under no circ*mstancecould she stand the suspense of another day.

She had heard her father go out. Hilda was coming up, the maids wereasleep. She waited until Hilda's door was shut, then she slipped outof bed, tucked her toes into a pair of sandals, threw a furry motorcoat around her, and sped silently down the stairs. She shrank back asshe opened the front door. The sleet rattled on the steps, thepavements were covered with white.

The mail-box was in front of the house. She made a rush for it,dropped in the precious letter, and gained once more the haven of thewarm hall.

She was glad to get back to her room. As she settled down among herpillows, she had a great sense of adventure, as if she had travelledfar in a few moments.

As a matter of fact, she had made her first real excursion into theland of romance. She found her thoughts galloping.

At the foot of the bed her silver Persian, Polly Ann, lay curled on herown gray blanket.

"Polly Ann," Jean said, "if he doesn't come, I shall hate myself forwriting that note."

Polly Ann surveyed her sleepily.

"But it would serve me right if he didn't, Polly Ann."

She turned off the light and tried to sleep. Downstairs the telephonerang. It rang, too, in Hilda's room. Hilda's door opened and shut.She came across the hall and tapped on Jean's door. "May I come in?"

"Yes."

"Your father has just telephoned," Hilda said from the threshold, "thatGeneral Drake's nurse is not well, and will have to be taken off thecase. I shall have to go in her place. There is a great shortage atthe hospital. Will you be afraid to stay alone, or shall I wake upEllen and have her sleep on the couch in your dressing room?"

"Of course I am not afraid, Hilda. Nothing can happen until fathercomes back."

As Hilda went away, Jean had a delicious feeling of detachment. Shewould be alone in the house with her thoughts of Derry.

She got out of bed to say her prayers. With something of a thrill sheprayed for Derry's father. She was not conscious as she made herpetitions of any ulterior motive. Yet a placated Providence would, shefelt sure, see that the General's sickness should not frustrate theplans which she had quite daringly made for his son.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SHADOWED ROOM

Derry had dined that night with his cousin, Margaret Morgan.Margaret's husband was somewhere in France with Pershing's divisions.Margaret was to have news of him this evening, brought by a youngEnglish officer, Dawson Hewes, who had been wounded at Ypres, and whohad come on a recruiting mission, among his countrymen in America.

The only other guest was to be Drusilla Gray.

Derry had gone over early to have the twilight hour with Margaret'schildren. There was Theodore, the boy, and Margaret-Mary, on the edgeof three. They had their supper at five in the nursery, and after thatthere was always the story hour, with nurse safely downstairs for herdinner, their mother, lovely in a low-necked gown, and father coming inat the end. For several months their father had not come, and the bestthey could do was to kiss his picture in the frame with the eagle onit, to put flowers in front of it, and to say their little prayers forthe safety of men in battle.

It was Cousin Derry who dropped in now at the evening hour. He was afamous story-teller, and they always welcomed him uproariously.

Margaret Morgan, perhaps better than any other, knew in those days whatwas in Derry's heart. She knew the things against which he hadstruggled, and she had rebelled hotly, "Why should he be sacrificed?"she had asked her husband more than once during the three years whichhad preceded America's entrance into the war. "He wants to be overthere driving an ambulance—doing his bit. Aunt Edith always idealizedthe General, and Derry is paying the price."

"Most women idealize the men they love, honey-girl." Winston Morganwas from the South, and he drew upon its store of picturesqueendearments to express his joy and pride in his own Peggy. "And ifthey didn't where should we be?"

She had leaned her head against him. "I don't need to idealize you,"she had said, comfortably, "but the General is different. Aunt Edithmade Derry live his father's life, not his own, and it has moulded himinto something less than he might have been if he had been allowed moreinitiative."

Winston had shaken his head. "Discipline is a mighty good thing in theArmy, Peggy, and it's a mighty good thing in life. Derry Drake is ashard as steel, and as finely tempered. If he ever does break loose,he'll be all the more dynamic for having held himself back."

Margaret, conceding all that, was yet constrained to pour out uponDerry the wealth of her womanly sympathy. It was perhaps the knowledgeof this as well as his devotion to her children which brought him oftento her door.

Tonight she was sitting on a low-backed seat in front of the fire witha child on each side of her. She was in white, her dark hair in asimple shining knot, a little pearl heart which had been CaptainMorgan's parting gift, her only ornament.

"Go on with your story," he said, as he came in. "I just want tolisten and do nothing."

She glanced up at him. He looked tired, unlike himself, depressed.

"Anything the matter?"

"Father isn't well. Dr. McKenzie has taken the case. Richards hasgone to the front. Bronson will call me if there are any unfavorabledevelopments."

Margaret-Mary, curled up like a kitten in the curve of Cousin Derry'sarm, was exploring his vest pocket. She found two very small squaresof Washington taffy wrapped in wax paper, one for herself and one forTeddy. It was Derry's war-time offering. No other candies werepermitted by Margaret's patriotism. Her children ate molasses on theirbread, maple sugar on their cereal. Her soldier was in France, andthere were other soldiers, not one of whom should suffer because of thewanton waste of food by the people who stayed softly at home.

"You tell us a story, Uncle Derry," Teddy pleaded as he ate his taffy.

"I'd rather listen to your mother."

"They are tired of me," Margaret told him.

"We are not ti-yard," her small son enunciated carefully, "but you saidyou had to fix the f'owers."

"Well, I have. May I turn them over to you, Derry?"

"For a minute. But you must come back."

She came back presently, to find the lights out and only the glow ofthe fire to illumine faintly the three figures on the sofa. She stoodunseen in the door and listened.

"And so the Tin Soldier stood on the shelf where the little boy had puthim, and nothing happened in the old, old house. There was just anold, old man, and walls covered with old, old portraits, and knights inarmor, and wooden trumpeters carved on the door who blew with all theirmight, 'Trutter-a-trutt, Trutter-a-trutt'—. But the old man and theportraits and the wooden trumpeters had no thought for the Tin Soldierwho stood there on the shelf, alone and longing to go to the war. Andat last the Tin Soldier cried out, 'I can't stand it. I want to go tothe wars—I want to go to the wars!' But nobody listened or cared."

"Poor 'itte sing," Margaret-Mary crooned.

"If I had been there," Teddy proclaimed, "I'd have put him on the floorand told him to run and run and run!"

"But there was nobody to put him on the floor," said Derry, "so at lastthe Tin Soldier could stand it no longer. 'I will go to the wars, Iwill go to the wars,' he cried, and he threw himself down from theshelf."

The story stopped suddenly. "Go on, go on," urged the little voices inthe dark.

"Perhaps you think that was the end of it, and that the Tin Soldier ranaway to the wars, to help his country and save the world from ruin.But Fate wasn't as kind to him as that. For when the little boy cameagain to the old house, he looked for the Tin Soldier. But he wasn'ton the shelf. And he looked and looked and, the old man looked, andthe wooden trumpeters blew out their cheeks, 'Trutter-a-trutt,trutter-a-trutt—where is the Tin Soldier?—trutter-a-trutt—.'

"But they did not find him, for the Tin Soldier had fallen through acrack in the floor, and there he lay as in an open grave."

Drusilla's voice was heard in the lower hall, and the deeper voice ofCaptain Hewes. Margaret sped down to meet them, leaving the story,reluctantly, in that moment of heart-breaking climax.

When later Derry followed her, she had a chance to say, "I hope yougave it a happy ending."

"Oh, did you hear? Yes. They found him in time to send him away towar. But Hans Andersen didn't end it that way. He knew life."

She stared at him in amazement. Was this the Derry whose supply ofcheerfulness had seemed inexhaustible? Whose persistent optimism hadbeen at times exasperating to his friends?

Throughout the evening she was aware of his depression. She was aware,too, of the mistake which she had made in bringing Derry and CaptainHewes together.

The Captain had red hair and a big nose. But he was a gentleman in thefine old English sense; he was a soldier with but one idea, that everyphysically able man should fight. Every sentence that he spoke wascharged with this belief, and every sentence carried a sting for Derry.

More than once Peggy found it necessary to change the subjectfrantically. Drusilla supplemented her efforts.

But gradually the Captain's manner froze. With a sort of militarysixth sense, he felt that he had been asked to break bread and eat saltwith a slacker, and he resented it.

After dinner Drusilla sang for them. Sensitive always to atmosphere,she soothed the Captain with old and familiar songs, "Flow gently,sweet Afton," and "Believe me if all those endearing young charms."

Then straight from these to "I'm going to marry 'Arry on the Fifth ofJanuary."

"Oh, I say—Harry Lauder," was Captain Hewes' eager comment. "I heardhim singing to the chaps in the trenches just before I sailed—a littlestocky man in a red kilt. He'd laugh, and you'd want to cry."

Drusilla gave them "Wee Hoose among the Heather," with the touch ofpathos which the little man in the red kilt had imparted to it as hehad sung it in October in New York before an audience which had wept asit had welcomed him.

"Queer thing," Captain Hewes mused, "what the war has done to him, sethim preaching and all that."

"Oh, it isn't queer," Margaret was eager. "That is one of the thingsthe war is doing, bringing men back to—God—" A sob caught in herthroat.

Drusilla's hands strayed upon the keys, and into the Battle Hymn of theRepublic.

"I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps,
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps,
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on—"

It was an old tune, but the words were new to Captain Hewes—as thegirl chanted them, in that repressed voice that yet tore the heart outof him.

"He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat,
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant my feet,
Our God is marching on—"

The Captain sat on the edge of his chair. His face was illumined.

"By Jove," he ejacul*ted, "that's topping!"

Drusilla stood up with her back to the piano, and sang without music.

"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea—
With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me,
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on—"

She wore a gown of sheer dull blue, there was a red rose in herhair—her white arms, her white neck, the blue and red, youth and fire,strength and purity.

When she finished the room was very still. The big Englishman had nowords for such a moment. The music had swept him up to unexpectedheights of emotion. While Drusilla sang he had glimpsed for the firsttime the meaning of democracy, he had seen, indeed, in a great andlofty sense, for the first time—America.

Among the shadows a young man shrank in his seat. His vision was notof Democracy, but of a freezing night—of a ragged old voice risingfrom the blackness of a steep ravine—

"Oh, be swift, my soul—to answer—Him—
Be jubilant my feet—"

Why had Drusilla chosen that of all songs? Oh, why had she sung at all?

A maid came in to say that Mr. Drake was wanted at the telephone. Themessage was from Dr. McKenzie. The General was much worse. It mightbe well for Derry to come home.

So Derry, with a great sense of relief, got away from the frigidCaptain, and from the flaming Drusilla, and from Peggy with her flushedair of apology, and went out into the stormy night. He had preferredto walk, although his shoes were thin. "It isn't far," he had saidwhen Margaret expostulated, "and I'll send my car for Drusilla andCaptain Hewes."

The sleet drove against his face. His feet were wet before he reachedthe first corner, the wind buffeted him. But he felt none of it. Hewas conscious only of his depression and of his great dread of againentering the big house where a sick man lay in a lacquered bed andwhere a painted lady smiled on the stairs. Where there was nothingalive, nothing young, nothing with lips to welcome him, or with handsto hold out to him.

He found when at last he arrived that the Doctor had sent for HildaMerritt.

She came presently, in her long blue cloak and small blue bonnet.Hilda made no mistakes in the matter of clothes. She realized theglamour which her nurse's uniform cast over her. In evening dress shewas slightly commonplace. In ordinary street garb not an eye wouldhave been turned upon her, but the nun's blue and white of her uniformadded the required spiritual effect to her rather full-blown beauty.

As she passed the painted lady at the head of the stairway she gave hera slight glance. Then on and up she went to her appointed task.

"It is pneumonia," Dr. McKenzie told Derry; "that's why I wanted MissMerritt. She is very experienced, and in these days of war it is hardto get good nurses."

Derry found his voice shaking. "Is there any danger?"

"Naturally, at his age. But I think we are going to pull him through."

Derry went into the shadowed room. His father was breathing heavily.Something clutched at the boy's heart—the fear of the Thing whichlurked in the darkness—a chill and sinister figure with a skeletonhand.

He could not have his father die. He would feel as if his thoughts hadkilled him—a murderer in intention if not in deed. Not thus must theObstacle be removed. He raised haggard eyes to the Doctor's face."You—you mustn't think that I store things up against him. He's all Ihave."

The Doctor's keen glance appraised him. "Don't get morbid over it; hehas everything in his favor—and Miss Merritt is famous in such cases."

Hilda took his praise with downcast eyes. Her manner with the Doctorwhen others were present was professionally deferential. It was onlywhen they were alone that the nurse was submerged in the woman.

With her bonnet off and a white cap in its place, she moved about theroom. "I shall be very comfortable," she said, when Derry inquired ifanything could be done for her.

"We haven't any women about the place but Cook," he explained. "Shehas been in our family forever—"

"I'll put a day nurse on tomorrow," the Doctor said, "but I want Hildawith him at night; she can call me up if there's any change, and I'llcome right over."

When the Doctor had gone, Derry, seeking his room, found Muffinwaiting. Bronson bustled in to see that his young master got out ofhis wet clothes and into a hot bath. "All the time the Doctor wastalking to you, I was worrying about your shoes. Your feet are soaked,sir. Whatever made you walk in the rain?"

"I couldn't ride—I couldn't."

The old man on his knees removing the wet shoes looked up. "Restless,sir?"

"Yes. There are times, Bronson, when I want my mother."

He could say it in this room to Bronson and Muffin—to the gray old dogand the gray old man who adored him.

Bronson put him to bed, settled Muffin among his blankets in a basketby the hot water pipes, opened the windows wide, said "God bless you,"and went away.

"Sweet dreams, Muffin," said Derry from the big bed.

The old dog whuffed discreetly.

It was their nightly ceremony.

The sleet came down in golden streaks against the glow of the streetlights. Derry lay watching it, and it was a long time before he slept.Not since his mother's death had he been so weighed down with heaviness.

He kept seeing Jean with her head up, declining to dance with him; onthe high stool at the confectioner's, her eyes cold above herchocolate; the English Captain and his contemptuous stare; Alma, baselyexcusing him; Drusilla, in her red and blue and white—singing—!

He waked in the morning with a sore throat. Young Martin came in tolight the fire and draw the water for his bath. Later Bronson broughthis breakfast and the mail.

"You'd better stay in bed, Mr. Derry."

"I think I shall. How is Dad?"

"The nurse says he is holding his own."

"I am glad of that."

Bronson, feeding warm milk and toast to Muffin, ventured an opinion, "Iam not sure that I like the nurse, sir."

"Why not?"

"She's not exactly a lady, and she's not exactly a nurse."

"I see." Derry, having glanced over a letter or two, had picked up anenvelope with embossed thistles on the flap. "But she is ratherpretty, Bronson."

"Pretty is as pretty does," sententiously.

Silence. Bronson looked across at the young man propped up among thepillows. He was rereading the letter with the thistles on the flap.The strained look had gone out of his eyes, and his lips were smiling.

"I think I'll get up."

"Changed your mind, sir?"

"Yes." He threw back the covers. "I've a thousand things to do."

But there was just one thing which he was going to do which stood outbeyond all others. Neither life nor death nor flood nor fire shouldkeep him from presenting himself at four o'clock at Jean McKenzie'sdoor, in response to the precious note which in a moment had changedthe world for him.

CHAPTER IX

ROSE-COLOR!

Jean found the day stretching out ahead of her in a series of excitingevents. At the breakfast table her father told her that Hilda wouldstay on General Drake's case, and that she had better have EmilyBridges up for a visit.

"I don't like to have you alone at night, if I am called away."

"It will be heavenly, Daddy, to have Emily—"

And how was he to know that there were other heavenly things to happen?She had resolved that if Derry came, she would tell her fatherafterwards. But he might not come, so what was the use of beingpremature?

She sallied down to the Toy Shop in high feather. "You are to staywith us, Emily."

"Oh, am I? How do you know that I can make it convenient?"

"But you will, darling."

Jean's state of mind was beatific. She painted Lovely Dreams with atouch of inspiration which resulted in a row of purple camels:"Midnight on the Desert," Jean called them.

"Oh, Emily," she said, "we must have them in the window on Christmasmorning, with the Wise Men and the Star—"

Emily, glancing at the face above the blue apron, was struck by theradiance of it.

"Is it because Hilda is away?" she asked.

"Is what—?"

"Your—rapture."

Jean laughed. "It is because Hilda is away, and other things. But Ican't tell you now."

Then for fear Emily might be hurt by her secrecy, she flew to kiss herand again call her "Darling."

At noon she put on her hat and ran home, or at least her heart ran, andwhen she reached the house she sought the kitchen.

"I am having company for tea, Ellen—at four. And I wantLady-bread-and-butter, and oh, Ellen, will you have time for littlepound cakes?"

She knew of course that pound cakes were—verboten. She felt,however, that even Mr. Hoover might sanction a fatted calf in the faceof this supreme event.

She planned that she would receive Derry in the small drawing room. Itwas an informal room which had been kept by her mother for intimatefriends. There was a wide window which faced west, a davenport in deeprose velvet, some chairs to match, and there were always roses in anold blue bowl.

Jean knew the dress she was going to wear in this room—of blue tomatch the bowl, with silver lace, and a girdle of pink brocade.

Alone in her room with Polly-Ann to watch proceedings, she got out thelovely gown.

"Oh, I do want to be pretty, Polly-Ann," she said with much wistfulness.

Yet when she was all hooked and snapped into it, she surveyed herselfwith some dissatisfaction in the mirror.

"Why not?" she asked the mirror. "Why shouldn't I wear it?"

The mirror gave back a vision of beauty—but behind that vision in thedepths of limitless space Jean's eyes discerned something which madeher change her gown. Quite soberly she got herself into a little nun'sfrock of gray with collars and cuffs of transparent white, and above itall was the glory of her crinkled hair.

Neither then nor afterwards could she analyze her reasons for thechange. Perhaps sub-consciously she was perceiving that this meetingwith Derry Drake was to be a serious and stupendous occasion.Throughout the world the emotions of men and women were being quickenedto a pace set by a mighty conflict. Never again would Jean McKenzielaugh or cry over little things. She would laugh and cry, of course,but back of it all would be that sense of the world's travail andtragedy, made personal by her own part in it.

Julia, the second maid, was instructed to show Mr. Drake into thelittle drawing room. Jean came down early with her knitting, and saton the deep-rose Davenport. The curtains were not drawn. There wasalways the chance of a sunset view. Julia was to turn on the lightwhen she brought in the tea.

There was the whir of a bell, the murmur of voices. Jean sat tense.Then as her caller entered, she got somewhat shakily on her feet.

But the man in the door was not Derry Drake!

In his intrusive and impertinent green, pinched-in as to waist, andpuffed-out as to trousers, his cheeks red with the cold, his brown eyesbright with eagerness, Ralph Witherspoon stood on the threshold.

"Of all the good luck," he said, "to find you in."

She shook hands with him and sat down.

"I thought you had gone back to Bay Shore. You said yesterday you weregoing."

"I got my orders in the nick of time. We are to go to Key West. I amto join the others on the way down."

"How soon?"

He sat at the other end of the davenport. "In three days, and anythingcan happen in three days."

He moved closer. She had a sense of panic. Was he going to propose toher again, in this room which she had set aside so sacredly for DerryDrake?

"Won't you have some tea?" she asked, desperately. "I'll have Juliabring it in."

"I'd rather talk."

But she had it brought, and Julia, wheeling in the tea-cart, offered amoment's reprieve. And Ralph ate the Lady-bread-and-butter, and thelittle pound cakes with the nuts and white frosting which had beenmeant for Derry, and then he walked around the tea-cart and took herhand, and for the seventh time since he had met her he asked her tomarry him.

"But I don't love you." She was almost in tears.

"You don't know what love is—I'll teach you."

"I don't want to be taught."

"You don't know what it means to be taught—"

Jean had a stifling sense as of some great green tree bending down tocrush her. She put out her hand to push it away.

In the silence a bell whirred—.

Derry Drake, ushered in by Julia, saw the room in the rosy glow of thelamp. He saw Ralph Witherspoon towering insolently in his aviator'sgreen. He saw Jean, blushing and perturbed. The scene struck coldagainst the heat of his anticipation.

He sat down in one of the rose-colored chairs, and Julia brought moretea for him, more Lady-bread-and-butter, more pound cakes with nuts andfrosting.

Ralph was frankly curious. He was also frankly jealous. He was awarethat Derry had met Jean for the first time at his mother's dinnerdance. And Derry's millions were formidable. It did not occur toRalph that Derry, without his millions, was formidable. Ralph's ideaof a man's attractiveness for women was founded on his belief in theiradmiration of good looks, and their liking for the possession of, as hewould himself have expressed it, "plenty of pep" and "go." FromRalph's point of view Derry Drake was not handsome, and he was utterlyunaware that back of Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparentlanguidness were banked fires which could more than match his own.

And there was this, too, of which he was unconscious, that Derry'smillions meant nothing to Jean. Had he remained the shabby son of theshabby old man in the Toy Shop, her heart would still have followed him.

So, fatuously hopeful, Ralph stayed. He stayed until five, untilhalf-past five. Until a quarter of six.

And he talked of the glories of war!

Derry grew restless. As he sat in the rose-colored chair, he fingereda tassel which caught back one of the curtains of the wide window. Itwas a silk tassel, and he pulled at one strand of it until it wasflossy and frayed. He was unconscious of his work of destruction,unconscious that Jean's eyes, lifted now and then from her knitting,noted his fingers weaving in and out of the rosy strands.

Ralph talked on. With seeming modesty he spoke of the feats of othermen, yet none the less it was Ralph they saw, poised like a bird atincredible heights, looping the loop, fearless, splendid—beating theair with strong wings.

Six o'clock, and at last Ralph rose. Even then he hesitated and hungback, as if he expected that Derry might go with him. But Derry, stiffand straight beside the rose-colored chair, bade him farewell!

And now Derry was alone with Jean!

They found themselves standing close together in front of the fire.The garment of coldness and of languor which had seemed to enshroudDerry had dropped from him. The smile which he gave Jean was like warmwine in her veins.

"Well—?"

"I asked you to come—to say—that I am,—sorry—," her voice breaking."Daddy told me that he knew why—you couldn't fight—"

"I didn't intend that he should tell."

"He didn't," eagerly, "not your reasons. He said it was a—confidence,and he couldn't break his word. But he knew that you were brave. Thatthe things the world is saying are all wrong. Oh, I ought to go downon my knees."

Her face was white, her eyes deep wells of tears.

"It is I," he said, very low, "who should be on my knees—do you knowwhat it means to me to have you tell me this?"

"I wasn't sure that I ought to write. To some men I couldn't havewritten—"

His face lighted. "When your note came—I can't tell you what it meantto me. I shouldn't like to think of what this day would have been forme if you had not written. Everybody is calling me—a coward. Youknow that. You heard Witherspoon just now pitying me, not in words,but his manner."

"Oh, Ralph," how easily she disposed of him. "Ralph crows, likea—rooster."

They looked at each other and tried to laugh. But they were notlaughing in their hearts.

He lifted her hand and kissed it—then he stood well away from her,anchoring himself again to the silken tassel. "Now that you know apart," he said, from that safe distance, "I'd like to tell you all ofit, if I may."

As he talked her fingers were busy with her knitting, but there camemoments when she laid it down and looked up at him with eyes thatmirrored his own earnestness.

"It—it hasn't been easy," he said in conclusion, "but—but if you willbe my friend, nothing will be hard."

She tried to speak—was shaken as if by a strong wind, and her knittingwent up as a shield.

"My dear, you are crying," he said, and was on his knees beside her.

And now they were caught in the tide of that mighty wave which wassweeping the world!

When at last she steadied herself, he was again anchored to therose-colored tassel.

"You—you must forgive me—but—it has been so good to talk it out—tosome one—who cared. I had never dreamed until that night in the ToyShop of anybody—like you. Of anybody so—adorable. When your notecame this morning, I couldn't believe it. But now I know it is true.And that night of Cinderella you were so—heavenly."

It was a good thing that Miss Emily came in at that moment—for hiseloquence was a burning flood, and Jean was swept up and on with it.

The entrance of Emily, strictly tailored and practical, gave them pause.

"You remember Mr. Drake, don't you, Emily?"

Emily did, of course. But she had not expected to see him here. Sheheld out her hand. "I remember that he was coming back for more ofyour Lovely Dreams."

"I want all of her dreams," said Derry, and something in the way thathe said it took Miss Emily's breath away. "Please don't sell them toanyone else. You have a wholesale order from me."

Miss Emily looked from one to the other. She was conscious ofsomething which touched the stars—something which all her life she hadmissed, something which belongs to youth and ecstasy.

"Wholesale orders are not in my line," she said. "You can settle thatwith Jean."

She surveyed the tea-wagon. "I'm starved. And if I eat I shall spoilmy dinner."

"I can ring for hot water, Emily, and there are more of the poundcakes."

"My dear, no. I must go upstairs and dress. Your father sent for mybag, and Julia says it is in my room."

She bade Derry a cheerful good-bye, and left them alone.

"I must go, too," said Derry, and took Jean's hand. He stood lookingdown at her. "May I come tomorrow?"

"Oh,—yes—"

"There's one thing that I should like more than anything, if we couldgo to church together—to be thankful that—that we've found eachother—"

Tears in the shining eyes!

"Why are you crying?"

"Because it is so—sweet."

"Then you'll go?"

"I'd love it."

He dropped her hand and got away. She was little and young, sodivinely innocent. He felt that he must not take unfair advantage ofthat mood of exaltation.

He drove straight downtown and ordered flowers for her. Rememberingthe nun's dress, he sent violets in a gray basket, with a knot on thehandle of heavenly blue.

The flowers came while Jean was at dinner. Emily was in Hilda's place,a quiet contrast in her slenderness and modest black to Hilda'sopulence. Dr. McKenzie had not had time to dress.

"I am so busy, Emily."

"But you love the busy-ness, don't you? I can't imagine you withoutthe hours crammed full."

"Just now I wish that I could push it away as Richards pushed it—"

Jean looked up. "But Dr. Richards went to France, Daddy."

"I envy him."

"Oh, do you—?" Then her flowers came, and she forgot everything else.

The Doctor whistled as Julia set the basket in front of Jean. "Ralphis generous."

Jean had opened the attached envelope and was reading a card. A waveof self-conscious color swept over her cheeks. "Ralph didn't sendthem. It—it was Derry Drake."

"Drake? How did that happen?"

"He was here this afternoon for tea, and Ralph, and Emily—only Emilywas late, and the tea was cold—"

"So you've made up?"

"We didn't have to make up much, Daddy, did we?" mendaciously.

Miss Emily came to the rescue. "He seems very nice."

"Splendid fellow. But I am not sure that I want him sending flowers tomy daughter. I don't want anyone sending flowers to her."

Miss Emily took him up sharply. "That's your selfishness. Life hasalways been a garden where you have wandered at will. And now you wantto shut the gate of that garden against your daughter."

"Well, there are flowers that I shouldn't care to have her pluck."

"Don't you know her well enough to understand that she'll pluck onlythe little lovely blooms?"

His eyes rested on Jean's absorbed face. "Yes, thank God. And thankyou, too, for saying it, Emily."

After dinner they sat in the library. Doctor McKenzie on one side ofthe fire with his cigar, Emily on the other side with her knitting.Jean between them in a low chair, a knot of Derry's violets fragrantagainst the gray of her gown, her fingers idle.

"Why aren't you knitting?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't have to set a good example to Emily."

"And you do to Hilda?" He threw back his head and laughed.

"You needn't laugh. Isn't it comfy with Emily?"

"It is." He glanced at the slender black figure. He was still feelingthe fineness of the thing she had said about Jean. "But when she ishere I am jealous."

"Oh, Daddy."

"And I am never jealous of Hilda. If you had Emily all the time you'dlove her better than you do me."

He chuckled at their hot eyes. "If you are teasing," Jean told him,"I'll forgive you. But Emily won't, will you, Emily?"

"No." Emily's voice was gay, and he liked the color in her cheeks."He doesn't deserve to be forgiven. Some day he is going to bedevoured by a green-eyed monster, like a bad little boy in a SundaySchool story."

Her needles clicked, and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt thatthere was a sprightliness about Emily that was stimulating.

"But one's only daughter, Emily. Isn't jealousy pardonable?"

"Not in you."

"Why not?"

"Well," with obvious reluctance, "you're too big for it."

"Oh," he was more pleased than he was willing to admit, "did you hearthat, Jean?"

But Jean, having drifted away from them, came back with, "I am going tochurch with him tomorrow."

"Him? Whom?"

"Derry Drake, Daddy, and may I bring him home to dinner?"

"Do you think a man like that goes begging for invitations? He hasprobably been asked to a dozen places to eat his turkey."

"He can't eat it at a dozen places, Daddy. And anyhow I should like toask him. I—I think he is lonely—"

"A man with millions is never lonely."

She did not attempt to argue. She felt that her father could notpossibly grasp the truth about Derry Drake. Her own understanding ofhis need had been a blinding, whirling revelation. He had said, "Iwanted some one—who cared—." Not for a moment since then had theworld been real to her. She had seemed in the center of agolden-lighted sphere, where Derry's voice spoke to her, where Derry'ssmile warmed her, where Derry, a silver-crested knight, knelt at herfeet.

Julia came in to say that Miss Jean was wanted at the telephone.

Miraculously Derry's voice came over the wire. Was she going to thedance at the Willard? The one for the benefit of the Eye and EarHospital? The President and his wife would be there—the only ballthey had attended this season—everybody would be there. Could he comefor Jean and her father? And he'd bring Drusilla and Marion Gray. Sheknew Drusilla?

Jean on tiptoe. Oh, yes. But she was not sure about her father.

"But you—you—?"

"I'll ask."

She flew on winged feet and explained excitedly.

"Tonight? Tonight, Jean?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"But what time is it?"

"Only ten. He'll come at eleven—"

"But you can't leave Emily alone, dear."

"Emily won't mind—darling—will you, Emily?"

"Of course not. I am often alone."

It was said quietly, without bitterness, but Dr. McKenzie was quitesuddenly and unreasonably moved by the thought of all that Emily hadmissed. He felt it utterly unfair that she should sit alone by anempty hearth while he and Jean frivolled. He had never thought ofHilda by an empty hearth—and she had been often alone—but there wasthis which made the difference, he would not have asked Hilda to meethis daughter's friends. She had her place in his household, but it wasnot the place which Emily filled.

Yet he missed her. He missed her blond picturesqueness at the dinnertable, her trim whiteness as she served him in his office.

He came back to the question of Emily. "You can tell Drake we will go,if Emily can accompany us."

"But, Doctor, I'd rather not."

"Why not?"

"I'm not included in the invitation."

"Don't be self-conscious."

"And I haven't anything to wear."

"You never looked better than you do at this moment. And Jean can getyou that scarf of her mother's with the jet and spangles."

"The peaco*cky one—oh, yes, Daddy." Jean danced back to the telephone.

Derry was delighted to include Miss Bridges. "Bring a dozen if youwish."

"I don't want a dozen. I want just Daddy and Emily."

"And me?"

"Of course—silly—"

Laughter singing along the wire. "May I come now?"

"I have to change my dress."

"In an hour, then?"

"Yes."

"I can't really believe that we are going together!"

"Together—"

CHAPTER X

A MAN WITH MONEY

White and silver for Jean, the peaco*cky scarf making Emily shine withthe best of them, Dr. McKenzie called away at the last moment, andpromising to join them later; Derry catching his breath when he saw hisviolets among Jean's laces; Drusilla wondering a little at thistransfigured Derry; Marion Gray settling down to the comfort of a chatwith Emily—what had these to do with a Tin Soldier on a shelf?

"How is your father, Derry?"

"Better, Drusilla. He has a fine nurse. Dr. McKenzie sent her."

"And I have Emily," Jean sang from the corner of the big car whereDerry had her penned in, with the fragrance of her violets sweepingover him as he sat next to her. "I want Emily always, but Daddy has tohave a nurse in the office, and Emily won't give up her toys. And inthe meantime Hilda and I are ready to scratch each other's eyes out.Please keep her as long as you can on your father's case, Mr. Drake."

"Say 'Derry,'" he commanded under cover of the light laughter of thewomen.

"Not before—-everybody—"

"Whisper it, then."

"Derry, Derry."

His pulses pounded. During the rest of the drive, he spoke to hisother guests and seemed to listen, but he heard nothing—nothing butthe whisper of that beloved voice.

As Derry had said, all the world of Washington was at the ball. ThePresident and his wife in a flag-draped box, she in black with aturquoise fan, he towering a little above her, more than President inthese autocratic days of war. They looked down on men in the uniformsof the battling world—Scot and Briton and Gaul—in plaid and khaki andhorizon blue—.

They looked down on women knitting.

Mrs. Witherspoon and a party of young people sat in a box adjoiningDerry's. Ralph was there and Alma Drew, and Alma was more than everlovely in gold-embroidered tulle.

Ralph knew what had happened when he saw Jean dancing with Derry.There was no mistaking the soft raptures of the youthful pair. In thedays to come Ralph was to suffer wounds, but none to tear his heartlike this. And so when he danced with Jean a little later he did notspare her.

"A man with money always gets what he wants."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do. You are going to marry Derry Drake."

She shrank at this. She had in her meetings with Derry never lookedbeyond the bliss of the moment. To have Ralph's rough fingers tearingat the veil of her future was revolting.

She breathed quickly. "I shan't dance with you, if you speak of itagain."

"You shall dance with me," grimly, "this moment is my own—"

She was like wax in his strong arms. "Oh, how dare you." She was coldwith auger. "I want to stop."

"And I could dance forever. That's the irony of it—that I cannot makeyou. But if I had Drake's money, I'd make you."

"Do you think it is his money?"

"Perhaps not. But the world will think it."

"If—if he wanted me, I'd marry him if he were a beggar in the streets."

"Has it gone as far as that? But you wouldn't marry a beggar. Atroubadour beneath your balcony, yes. But not a beggar. You'd wanthim silken and blond and singing, and staying at home while other menfought—"

She stopped at once. "If you knew what you were talking about; I'dnever speak to you again. But because I was fool enough once tobelieve that Derry Drake was a coward, I am going to forgive you. ButI shall not dance with you again; ever—"

Making her way back alone to the box, she saw with a throb of reliefthat her father had joined Emily and Marion Gray.

He uttered a quick exclamation as she came up. "What's the matter,daughter?"

Her throat was dry. "I can't tell you now—there are too many people.It was Ralph. I hate him, Daddy."

"My dear—"

"I do."

"But why?"

"Please, I don't want to talk about it—wait until we get home."

Looking out over the heads of the swaying crowd, she saw that Derry wasdancing with Alma Drew. And it was Alma who had said at theWitherspoon dinner, "Everybody will forgive a man with money."

And that was what Ralph had thought of her, that she was likeAlma—that money could buy her—that she would sell the honor of hercountry for gold—.

But worse than any hurt of her own was the hurt of the thing for Derry.Ralph Witherspoon had dared to point a finger of scorn at him—otherpeople had dared—

She suffered intensely, not as a child, but as a woman.

Alma, out on the floor, was saying to Derry, "I saw you dancing withJean McKenzie. She's a quaint little duck."

"Not a duck, Alma," he was smiling, "a white dove—or a silver swan."The look that he sent across the room to Jean was a revelation.

Like Ralph, she grew hateful. "So that's it? Well, a man with moneycan get anything."

He had no anger for her. Jean might blaze in his defense, but his ownfires were not to be fanned by any words of Alma Drew. If he lost hisfortune, Jean would still care for him. It was fore-ordained, as fixedas the stars.

So he went back to her, and when she saw him coming, the burden of herdistress fell from her. The world became once more hers and Derry's,with everybody else shut out. When they had supper with theWitherspoon party joining them, and Ralph palely repentant beside her,she even, to the utter bewilderment of her father, smiled at him, andtalked as if their quarrel had never been.

Drusilla watched her with more than a tinge of envy. She was awarethat her own vivid charm was shadowed and eclipsed by the white flameof Jean's youth and innocence. "And he loves her," she thought with atug of her heartstrings; "he loves her, and there'll never be anythinglike it for him again."

She sat rather silently between Captain Hewes and Dr. McKenzie. Dr.McKenzie had always admired Drusilla, but tonight his attention wasrather more than usual fixed upon her by a remark which Captain Heweshad made when the two men had stood alone together watching thedancers. "I have seen very little of American women—but to meDrusilla Gray seems the supreme type."

"She is very attractive."

"She is more than that. She is inspiring, the embodiment of your bestideals. When she sings one wonders that all men have not fought fordemocracy."

That was something to say of a woman. Doctor McKenzie wondered if itcould be said of his own daughter. Set side by side with Drusilla,Jean seemed a childish creature, unstable, swayed by the emotion of themoment. Yet her fire matched Drusilla's, her dreams outran Drusilla'sdreams.

Two officers passed the table.

"How any man can keep out of it," Drusilla said. "Some day I shall puton a uniform and pass for a boy—"

"Why not go over as you are?"

"They won't let me now. But some day they will. I can drive acar—there ought to be a place for me."

"There is one for me," he said, "and my decision must be made tonight.They are asking me to head a hospital staff in France. A letter camethis morning, and I've got to answer it."

Her eyes went to the flame-white maiden on the other side of the table."What does Jean say?"

"I haven't asked her. She wouldn't keep me back. But I am all shehas, and it would hurt."

"It would hurt. But you are not all that she has—you might as welltry to sweep back the sea as to stop what is going on over there. Ihave been sitting here green with envy. Oh, if love might only come tome like that."

"Like what?"

"Heaven-sent—never a doubt, never a speculation; just knowing andbelieving—souls stripped bare of all pretence."

How splendid she was—how beautiful! He bent down to her. "Whyshouldn't it come to you?"

"Men don't love me that way. They admire and respect and then love.But Jean? She's a moon maiden, luring them to—madness." She smiledup at him.

"Captain Hewes says you are the supreme type—the perfect American."

"Yes, but he thinks of me as a type. Some day perhaps he will think ofme as a woman."

She brought the conversation back to Jean. "You need not let thethought of her loneliness trouble you."

"You think then that I am going to lose her?"

"You have lost her already."

Sparks burned in the Doctor's eyes. "I don't believe it. She hasknown him a few days—and I've given her my whole life."

"'Forsaking all others,'" murmured Drusilla.

"Yet she loves me."

"It isn't that she loves you less—she loves him more."

"Don't," he lifted his hand. "I am not sure that I can stand it."

"It makes your way clear. That's why I have said it. There will benothing now to keep you back from France."

Once upon a time she had said to Derry, "I can feel things, and I canmake others feel." She had, perhaps, tonight, been a little cruel, butshe had been cruel with a purpose.

All the way home Doctor McKenzie was very silent. When he kissed hisdaughter before she went upstairs, he held her close and smoothed herhair, but not a word did he say of the thing which had come to him.

He asked Emily, however, to wait a moment. "I have a letter to answer.I should like your advice."

Wondering a little, she sat down by the fire. The peaco*cky scarf gaveout glittering lights of blue and green. She was tired and there wereshadows under her eyes.

He came at once to his proposition. "I am thinking of going to France,Emily. If I do, can you stay with Jean?"

She turned her startled gaze upon him. "To France? Why?"

He told her. "They have been writing to me for weeks, and now themoment for my decision has come. I haven't said anything to Jean. Butshe won't keep me back. You know how she feels. But unless you cancome, I can't leave her."

"I should have to be all day in my shop."

"I know, but you could be here in the evening and at night, and shecould, of course, be with you in the shop, she likes that—and it wouldkeep her from brooding. Or, if you will give up the shop, I shouldlike to make it financially possible for you, Emily."

She shook her head. "No. You will be coming back, and then myoccupation would be gone." She hesitated. "But if I come—what ofHilda?"

"She may decide to go over, too, as a nurse. We work well together."

She was silent, searching for the words which she felt that she oughtto say. So that was it? They would go together, and the tongues ofthe world would wag. And Hilda would know that they were wagging, andwould not care. But he, with his mind on bigger things, would neverknow, and would blunder unseeing into the net which was set for him.She felt that she ought to warn him, that the good friendship whichexisted between them demanded it. Yet it was a hard thing to say, andshe hated it. So the moment passed.

It was he who spoke first—of Jean and Derry. "What do you think ofit, Emily?"

"He is very much in love with her."

"And Jean?"

"Oh, I think you know. You saw her tonight."

He felt a sudden sense of age and loneliness. "She won't miss me,then?"

"Do you think that anyone could make up to your little Jean for theloss of her father?"

He covered his face with his hand. "You are feeling it like that?" sheasked, gently.

"Yes. She is all I have, Emily. And I amjealous—desperately—desperately."

She searched for words to comfort him, and at last they came. "Shewill be very proud of her Daddy in France."

"Do you think she will?"

"I know it."

"And yet—I am not really worthy of all that she gives—"

She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap. Jean's comment echoedonce more in his ears. "I like Emily's hands much better thanHilda's." They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely inEmily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle spirit.

"Bruce," she said—she rarely called him that—"your dear wife wouldnever have loved you if you hadn't been worthy of love."

"I need her—to hold me to my best."

"Hold yourself to it, Bruce—" She stood up. "I must go to bed, andso must you. We have busy days before us."

He spoke impulsively. "You are a good woman, Emily—there's no one inthe world that I would trust to stay with Jean but you."

She smiled a little wistfully as she went upstairs. She had perhapscomforted him, but she had left unsaid the words she should havespoken. "You must not take Hilda with you. If you take her with you,will your Jean be proud of her Daddy in France?"

CHAPTER XI

HILDA WEARS A CROWN

At two o'clock on Thanksgiving morning the light burned low in theGeneral's room. Hilda, wide awake, was reading. Derry stopped at thedoor.

She rose at once and went to him.

"Is he all right, Miss Merritt?"

"Yes. He's sound asleep."

"Then you think he's better?"

"Much better."

"Good. I hope you can stay on the case. Dr. McKenzie says it is allbecause of your splendid care of him. I just left McKenzie, by theway. I took him and his daughter to the ball at the Willard. We had acorking time."

Her eyes saw a change in him. This was not the listless Derry withwhom she had talked the day before—here were flushed cheeks andshining eyes—gay youth and gladness—.

"A corking time," Derry reiterated. "The President was there, and hiswife—and we danced a lot—and—" he caught himself up. "Well,good-night, Miss Merritt."

"Good-night." She went back to the shadowed room.

Bronson, following Derry, came back in a half hour with a dry, "Isthere anything I can do for you, Miss Merritt?" and then the house wasstill.

And now Hilda was alone with the old man in the lacquered bed. Therewould be no interruptions until morning. It was the moment for whichshe had waited ever since the hour when the General had sent her intohis wife's room for a miniature of Derry, which was locked in the safe.

The suite which had belonged to Mrs. Drake consisted of three rooms—asitting room, a bedroom and a sun-parlor which had been Derry'snursery. Nothing had been changed since her death. Every day a maidcleaned and dusted, and at certain seasons the clothes in the presseswere brushed and aired and put back again. In a little safe in thewall were jewels, and the key was on the General's ring. He had giventhe key to Hilda when he had sent her for the miniature. His fever hadbeen high, and he had not been quite himself. Even a nurse with afiner sense of honor might have argued, however, that her patient mustbe obeyed. So she knew now where his treasure was kept—behind aChinese scroll, which when rolled up revealed the panel which hid thesafe.

Hilda had never worn a jewel of value in her life. She possessed, itis true, a few trinkets, a gold ring with her monogram engraved in it,a string of Roman pearls, and a plain wrist watch. But such brillianceas that which met her startled eyes when she had first looked into thesafe was beyond anything conceived by her rather limited imagination.

She opened the door between the rooms quietly, and went in, leaving acrack that she might hear any movement on the part of her patient. Shecrossed the sitting room in the dark. Reaching the bedroom she pulledthe chain of the lamp, then set a screen to hide any ray of light whichmight escape.

The room was furnished with a feeling for delicate color—gold andivory—Japanese prints—pale silks and crêpes—a bit of jade—a cabinetinlaid with mother-of-pearl. But Hilda's eyes were not for these.Indeed, she knew nothing of their value, nothing, indeed, of the valueof the Chinese scroll which so effectually hid the panel in the wall.

Within the safe was a large velvet box, and several smaller ones. Itwas from the big box that Hilda had taken the miniature, and itcontained also the crown which she yearned to wear.

She called it a crown! It was a tiara of diamonds, peaked up to apoint in front. There was, also, the wide collar of pearls with thediamond slides which had been worn by the painted lady on the stairs.In the smaller boxes were more pearls, long strings of them; sapphireslike a midnight sky, opals, fire in a mist; rubies, emeralds—. Theyshould have been locked in a vault at the General's bank, but he hadwanted nothing taken away, nothing disturbed. Yet with that touch offever upon him he had given the key to Hilda.

She took off her cap and turned in the neck of her white linen gown.The pearl collar was a bit small for her, but she managed to snap thethree slides. She set the sparkling circlet on her head.

Then she stood back and surveyed herself in the oval mirror!

Gone was the Hilda Merritt whom she had known, and in her place was aqueen with a crown! She smiled at her reflection and nodded. For onceshe was swayed from her stillness and stolidity. She loaded her longhands with rings, and held them to her cheeks; then, struck by thecontrast of her white linen sleeve, she rummaged in one of the bigclosets, and threw on the bed a drift of exquisite apparel.

The gowns were all too small for her, but there was a cloak of velvetand ermine. The General's wife had worn it to the White House dinnerover the gown in which she had been painted. Hilda drew the cloakabout her shoulders, and laughed noiselessly. She could look likethis, and she had never known it! But now that she knew—!

There was the soft click of the telephone in the General's room.Fearful lest the sound should waken her patient, she tore off thetiara, turned up the neck of her dress to hide the shining collar,dropped the cloak, pulled the chain of the lamp, then sped breathlessto the shadowed room.

Dr. McKenzie was at the other end of the wire.

"I am coming over, Hilda."

"You need not,"—her voice was a whisper—"he is sound asleep."

"I want to see you for a moment. It is very important."

She hesitated. "It is very late."

"Has young Drake arrived?"

"Yes. He has gone to bed."

"I'll be there in ten minutes. You can meet me downstairs."

The General stirred. "Miss Merritt."

She hung up the receiver and went to him at once.

"Has the Doctor come?"

"No. But he has just telephoned. He will be here shortly."

His sick old eyes surveyed her. "I never saw you before without yourcap—"

"No."

"You are very pretty."

She smiled down at him. "It is nice of you to say it."

"Don't wear your cap again, I don't like uniforms for women."

"But when I am on duty I must wear it. You know enough of disciplineto understand that I must."

"Yes. But women don't need discipline, God bless 'em." His old eyestwinkled. "Has Derry come in?"

"Yes, and gone to bed. He asked after you."

"And it's Thanksgiving morning?"

"Yes."

"And no turkey for me. But you'll get me a glass of wine?"

"I'm not sure. I'll ask the Doctor."

She sat beside him until he again dozed. Then made her way once moreto the room where the lovely gowns were piled high on the bed, and thejewels sparkled on the dressing-table. Quickly and noiselessly she putthem in place. Then she tried to take off the collar, but the snapsheld. She tugged and pressed, but with no result. She was afraid topull too hard lest she break the snaps.

At last she was forced to button the collar of her linen gown above it.She smoothed her hair and put on her cap. The room as she surveyed itshowed no sign of her occupation. She put out the light and returnedto her patient.

She was at the front door to let the Doctor in when he arrived.

"The General is awake, and wants to see you. I'll come down when yougo, and we can talk."

As they entered the shadowed room together, the old man opened hiseyes. "Hello, McKenzie. Nurse, what made you put on your cap? Idon't like it."

"I shouldn't dare leave it off when the Doctor's here."

"Does she have to take your orders or mine, McKenzie?"

"Mine," smiling; "that's one of the perquisites of my profession, tohave all the nurses under my thumb."

"Don't you try to please your patients?"

"Yes."

"Then tell her to leave off her cap."

He began to cough. The Doctor bent over him. Hilda helped to make theold man comfortable.

When at last the General drifted into slumber, the two went downtogether. The hall clock pointed to four.

They stood at the foot of the great stairway. From the landing thepainted lady smiled at them.

"Hilda, I am going to France."

She expressed no surprise. "When did you make up your mind?"

"In a sense it is not made up. I think I am waiting for you to confirmmy decision. They want me at the head of a hospital staff, to dealwith cases of shock. I should like to have you in charge of my nurses."

She meditated. "I am not sure that I care to go."

He showed his surprise. "I understood that if I went, you would go—"

"I don't think I said that."

"Perhaps not. But it didn't occur to me that you would back out." Hisvoice showed the irritation of a man balked in the thing he wants.

"I haven't backed out. I don't know what I want to do. I have tothink it over."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "What made you change your mind?"

"I like to be comfortable. And it isn't comfortable over there."

"For Heaven's sake, Hilda—don't make yourself out as selfish as that."

"I am not any more selfish than other people, but I am honest. I don'tgo around deceiving myself with the idea that if I go I shall be doingsomething wonderful. But you—that's why you are going—to bewonderful in your own eyes, and Jean's eyes and in the eyes of theworld."

"I don't think it is that," he said soberly. "I hope not. I havetried to see straight. I sometimes think it is you who are seeingcrooked, Hilda."

They faced each other squarely. Her chin was slightly lifted. Hecaught the gleam of jewels at her throat.

"Hilda," he said, sharply, "where did you get those diamonds?"

Her hand flew up to them. She was not in the least disconcerted. "Imight as well tell you. They belonged to the General's wife. I didn'thave anything to do tonight, so I've been trying them on. There isn'tany harm in that, is there?"

"It's rather dangerous," slowly; "why didn't you take the collar off?"

"The snap caught just as you came, and I couldn't unfasten it."

"Did the General know that you tried them on?"

"Of course not. He was asleep."

"Bend your head down, and let me look at the snap."

She leaned towards him, bringing her neck against his hand. The littlecurls of bright hair sprang up towards his fingers as he worked at theobstinate catch. But he did his work steadily, and as she straightenedup again, he dropped the collar into her hand.

"If you will take my advice," he said, "you won't do a thing like thatagain. People might not understand."

"You mean that they might think I had stolen it? I am not a thief,Doctor—"

"Of course not. Do you think you have to tell me that? And are wequarrelling, Hilda?"

She swung back to her normal calm. "I am tired and cross—"

"I know you are tired. I hope the day nurse will relieve you. I canget two nurses, and let you off entirely."

She shook her head. "I'll stay here. I am interested in the case.And I want to see it through. By the way, he has asked again for wine."

"He can't have it, I told you. You must say that my orders are strict."

He held out his hand. "Then you won't go to France with me?"

"Let me sleep on it,"—her fingers were firm on his own—"and don'tscold me any more."

"Did I scold?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry."

She smiled at him. The slow smile which transformed her. "I'llforgive you. Call me up in the morning, please."

She let him out, and went silently up the stairs. The General wasagain awake. "I want to talk," he told her; "take off your cap, andsit where I can look at you."

He was still feverish, still not quite responsible for what he mightsay.

She sat with the light falling full upon her. She never made anunnecessary movement, and her stillness soothed him. She was a goodlistener, and he grew garrulous.

At last he spoke of his wife. "Sometimes I think she is here and Ifind myself speaking. A little while ago, I thought I heard her movingin her room, but when I opened my eyes you were bending over me.Sometimes I seem to hear her singing—there is never a moment that I donot miss her. If I were good enough I might hope to meet her—perhapsthe Lord will let the strength of my love compensate for the weaknessof my will."

So on and on in the broken old voice.

Bronson came at six, and Hilda went away to have some sleep. While theGeneral drowsed she had put the collar safely away behind the Chinesescroll.

As she passed through the hall, she stopped for a moment at the head ofthe stairs. The painted lady smiled at her, the painted lady who wasloved by the old man in the shadowed room.

No, Hilda was not a thief. Yet as she stood there, in the cold dawn ofthat Thanksgiving morning, she had it in her mind to steal from thepainted lady things more precious than a pearl collar or an erminecloak or the diamonds in a crown!

CHAPTER XII

WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG

Jean was having her breakfast in bed. Emily had slipped downstairs todrink an early cup of coffee with the Doctor and to warn him, "Don'ttell her to-day."

"Why not?"

"It will spoil her feast. Derry Drake is coming to dinner."

"The robber—"

"Do you really feel that way about it?"

"I don't know how I feel."

He rose and went to the window. "It's a rotten morning."

"It is Thanksgiving."

"I haven't much to be thankful for," moodily. "I am, you tell me,about to lose my daughter. I am, also, it would seem, to part companywith my best nurse."

"Hilda?"

"Yes. I wanted her to take charge of things for me in France. Sheelects to stay here."

"But why?"

"She's a—woman."

"You don't mean that. And I must say that I am rather glad that she isnot going."

It was out at last! She had a feeling as if she had taken a coldplunge and had survived it!

"Glad? What do you mean, Emily?"

"Every time I waked in the night, I thought of Jean and of how shewould feel if Hilda went with you. Do you realize that if she goes,there are things that the world will say?"

His face was stern. "You are very brave to tell me that, Emily."

"It had to be said, and last night I shirked it."

"But Hilda is a very good nurse."

"Do you think of her only as a—good nurse?"

He turned that over in his mind. "No. In a sense she's ratherattractive. She satisfies a certain side of me—."

"The best side?"

He avoided an answer to that. "When she is away I miss her."

And now Miss Emily, shaking a little, but not showing it, made him facethe situation squarely.

"Have you ever thought that, missing her, you might want to marry her?"

"I have thought of it. Why not, Emily?"

"Have you thought that it would make her your Jean's—mother—?"

His startled look met her steadfast one. His mind flew back to Hildaas she had bent down to him the night before, that he might unfastenthe necklace. He thought of the evil that her eyes saw in him, and inthe rest of the world. He thought of Jean, and of her white youngdreams.

"No," he said, as if to himself, "not that—"

She laid her hand on his arm, "Go by yourself—there's a big work overthere, and you can do it best—alone."

He looked down at her, smiling a little, but smiling sadly. "If Jean'smother had lived I should not have been such a weatherco*ck. Will youwrite to me—promise me that you will write."

"Of course," cheerfully. "Oh, by the way, Julia tells me that dinnerwill be at three, and that two soldier boys are coming. I rather thinkI shall like that."

He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "What a lot you get outof life, Emily."

"What makes you say that?"

"Little things count so much with you. You are like Jean. She is inseventh Heaven over a snowstorm—or a chocolate soda. It's the youthin her—and it's the youth, too, in you—"

She liked that, and flushed a little. "Perhaps it is because therehave been so few big things, Bruce, that the little ones look big."

He had a fleeting sense of what Emily would be like with some big thingin her life—how far would it swing her from her sedate course?

"You have done me a lot of good," he said heartily when she left him togo upstairs to Jean.

Jean was still in bed. "I must run down to the shop," Emily informedher. "But I'll be back in plenty of time to dress for dinner."

"Darling—" Jean reminded her, "you must go to church."

"Of course. I shall stop on my way down."

"Pray for me, Emily." She reached out her arms. Emily came to themand they clung together. "I am so happy, darling—" Jean whispered,"but there isn't anything to tell, not really—yet—Emily—"

When Emily had gone, Jean got out her memory books. She had made ofbreakfast a slight affair. How could one eat in the face of suchastounding events. Already this morning flowers had arrived for her,heather and American Beauties. And Derry had written on his card, "Theheather because of you—the roses because of the day—"

There were two hours on her hands before church. She could dress inone—the intervening time must be filled.

Her memory books were great fat volumes kept on a shelf by themselves,and forming a record of everything that had happened to her since herfirst day at boarding school. They were in no sense diaries, nor couldthey be called scrap-books. They had, rather, been compiled with aneye to certain red-letter events—and their bulkiness had been enhancedby the insertion between the leaves of various objects not intended forsuch limited space. There was a mask which she had worn at Hallowe'en;the tulle which had tied her roses at graduation; a little silver ringmarking a childish romance; a flattened and much-dried chocolate dropwith tender associations; dance-favors, clippings, photographs, theaterprograms, each illumined and emphasized by a line or two of sentimentor of nonsense in Jean's girlish scrawl.

Even now, as she turned the leaves, she found herself laughing over arhyme which her father had cut from his daily paper, and had sent inresponse to her wild plea for a box of something good to eat:

"Mary had a little lamb,
A little pork, a little jam,
A little egg on toast,
A little potted roast,
A little stew with dumplings white,
A little shad,
For Mary had,
A little appetite."

The big box had followed—how dear Daddy had always been—but had sheever wanted to eat like that?

There were letters which her father had written, pasted in, envelopesand all, to be read in certain longing moments when she had missed himand her mother. There were love letters from certain callow collegeboys—love—! She laughed now as she thought of the pale passionthey had offered her.

Derry had had no word for her the night before when he had left her ather door. Her father had been with her, so Derry could only press herhand and watch her as she went in. But there had been no need forwords. All the evening what they had felt had flamed between them—.

So with the desire to preserve a record of these marvellous momentswhich were crowding into her life, she chose a perfectly new book to bedevoted to Derry. And on the first page she pasted, not the fadedviolet from the basket which had come to her yesterday—oh, day ofdays!—not the dance program on which Derry's name was most magicallyscrawled, nor the spring of heather, nor a handful of rose leaves fromthe offering of the morning—no, the very first thing that went intoJean's memory book was a frayed silken tassel that had been cut from arose-colored curtain! She had carried down her little scissors thenight before, and had snipped it, and here it was—an omen for her ownrose-colored future!

Starry-eyed she lay back among her pillows.

"Oh, Polly-Ann, Polly-Ann," she said tensely, to the small cat on thecushions, "if I should ever wake up and find that it wasn't true—"

Polly-Ann stared at her with mystical green orbs. She could offer nohelp, but she served as a peg upon which Jean could hang her eloquence.She stretched herself luxuriously and purred.

"But it is true, Polly-Ann," Jean said, "and I am going to church withhim—wasn't it beautiful that he should think of going to church withme on Thanksgiving morning, Polly-Ann?"

She dressed herself presently, making a sort of sacred rite ofit—because of Derry. She was glad that she was pretty—because ofDerry. Glad that her gray fur coat was becoming—glad of the red roseagainst it.

He came in his car, but they decided to walk.

"I always walk to church," said Jean.

"There's sleet falling," said Derry.

"I don't care," said Jean.

"Nor I," said Derry.

And so they started out together!

It was a dismal day, but they did not know it. They knelt together inthe old church. They prayed together. And when at last thebenediction had been said and they stood together for a moment alone inthe pew, Derry looked down at her and said, "Beloved," and the morningstars sang—!

When they went out, the sleet was coming thick and fast, and Derry'scar was waiting. And when they were safe inside, he turned to her andhis voice exulted, "I haven't even told you that I love you—I haven'tasked you to marry me—I haven't done any of the conventionalthings—it hasn't needed words, and that's the wonder of it."

"Yes."

"But you knew."

"Yes."

"From the first?"

"I think it was from the first—"

"In the Toy Shop?"

"Yes."

"And you thought I was poor—and I thought you were just the girl inthe shop?"

"Isn't it wonderful?"

It was more wonderful than they knew.

"Do you know that my money has always been more important to somepeople than I have been? I have thought they cared for me because ofit."

"Ralph said last night that I cared—for the money."

She would not tell him of the other things that Ralph had said. Andeven as she thought of him, across the path of her rapture fell theshadow of Ralph's scorn of Derry.

He bent down to her. "Jean, if I had been that shabby boy that youfirst saw in the shop would you have been happy with me, in a plainlittle house? Would you?"

Up the streets came the people from the churches—the crowds of peoplewho had thanked the Lord soberly, feeling meantime a bit bewildered asto the workings of His Providence. Most of them were going home tosomewhat modified feasts. Many of them were having a soldier or two todine with them. And presently these soldiers whom they feasted wouldbe crossing the sea to that dread land of death and desolation.

Should they thank the Lord for that?

Some of the clergymen, craving light, had sought it in the OldTestament. But one, more inspired than the rest, had found it in theNew.

"And there was war in Heaven; Michael and his angels fought against thedragon; and the dragon fought and his angels. And prevailednot—neither was their place found any more in Heaven."

Those who came from that church spoke of a Holy War, and were thankfulthat there were men in America going forth to fight the Dragon.

The two soldiers who were to dine at Dr. McKenzie's were plain youngfellows from an upper county in Maryland. They were waiting somewhatawkwardly in the drawing-room when Jean arrived. She took them at onceto the less formal library, left Derry with them and went upstairs todress.

As she came into the fresh and frilly room so identified with her childlife and her girl life, she stopped on the threshold.

Oh, little room, little room, the child that once lived here will nevercome again!

She knelt beside the bed, her face buried in her hands. No words came,but in her heart she was saying, "My beloved is mine—and I am his—"

When she went down, Dr. McKenzie was there, and Emily, and the twoyoung soldiers had lost their awkwardness. When they found outafterwards that the young Drake who talked to them so simply andunaffectedly was DeRhymer Drake, the multi-millionaire, they refused tobelieve it. "He was a mighty nice chap. He didn't put on a bit ofside, and the dinner was some feast."

And how could they know that Derry was envying them their cavalryyellow and their olive drab?

As for Jean, throughout the afternoon they gazed upon her as upon anenchanting vision. When they told her "Good-bye" it was the boldestwho asked, with a flush on his hard cheek, if he might have a bit ofthe heather which she wore. "I am Scotch myself, and my mother was,and it would seem a sort of mascot."

If she hesitated for a moment it was only Derry who noticed it. And hehelped her out. "It will be a proud day for the heather."

So she gave away a part of his gift, and thanked him with her eyes.

It was after the boys had gone that Derry had a talk alone with Dr.McKenzie.

"But you haven't known her a month—"

"I have wanted her all my life."

"I see—how old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"You don't look it."

"No. And I don't feel it. Not to-day."

"And you think that she cares?"

"What do you think, sir?"

The Doctor threw up his hands. "Oh, lad, lad, there's all the wonderof it in her eyes when she looks at you."

When Derry went at last to find Jean, she was not in the library. Hecrossed the hall to the little drawing-room. His love sat by the firealone.

"My darling—"

Thus she came to his arms. But even then he held her gently,worshipping her innocence and respecting it.

The next morning he brought her a ring. It was such a wonderful ringthat she held her breath. She sat on the rose-colored davenport whilehe put it on her finger.

"If I had been the girl in the Toy Shop," she told him, "and you hadbeen the shabby boy, you would have given me a gold band with threelittle stones—and I should have liked that, too."

"You shall have the gold ring some day, and it won't have stones init—and it will be a wedding ring."

"Oh—"

"And when yon wear it I shall call you—Friend Wife—"

CHAPTER XIII

ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS?

In the afternoon the lovers made a triumphant pilgrimage to the placewhere they had first met. All the toys in the little shop stared atthem—the clowns and the dancers in pink and yellow and the bisquebabies and the glassy-eyed dogs and cats.

The white elephant was again in the window. "He seemed so lonely,"Emily explained, "and with Christmas coming I couldn't feel comfortableto think of him away from it all."

Jean showed Derry her midnight camels. "I am going to do peaco*cksnext," she told him. "I am so proud."

He bought all of the camels and a lot of other things. "We'll takethem to Margaret Morgan's kiddies tomorrow; I want you to meet her."

Miss Emily found her lavish customer interesting, but demoralizing."Run away with him, Jean," she said. "I am not used to Croesuses. Hewon't leave anything to sell, and then what shall I say to the peoplewho want to buy?"

"Shut up your shop and go to tea with us at Chevy Chase," Derrysuggested.

Emily smiled at him. "It is good of you to ask me, but I can't. I amnot in love, and I have my day's work to do. But I think if you wouldlike to take Jean—"

"Alone?" eagerly. "Do you think I might?"

"Why not?"

"I was almost afraid to suggest it."

"I am not a dragon. And there will never be a day like this for youagain."

Jean broke in at that. "Oh, Emily, they will be wonderfuller!"

"But not this day—"

Derry knew what she meant. "How sweet you are."

Miss Emily, flushing, was a transformed Miss Emily. "Well, old peopleare apt to forget, and I have not forgotten."

"Darling, darling," Jean chanted. "I am going to paint dragons, andthey shall all have lovely faces, and I shall call them theNot-Forgetting Dragons."

It was all very superlative. Miss Emily tried to send them away, butthey still lingered. Jean set the music boxes going to celebrate theoccasion, then stopped them because the only tunes they played wereGerman tunes.

Derry laughed at her, then came to silence before a box of tinsoldiers. They were little French soldiers, flat on their backs,bright with paint—

"I wonder how they feel about it?" he asked Jean.

"About what?"

"Shut up in a box, doing nothing—"

As the lovers drove away, Emily stood at the window looking after them.There was one customer in the shop, but Miss Emily had a feeling thathe would keep himself amused until she was ready to wait on him. Shehad intuitions about the people who came to buy, and this tall spareman with the slight droop of his shoulders, his upstanding bush of grayhair, his shell glasses on a black ribbon was, she was aware, havingthe time of his life. No little boy could have spent more time overthe toys. He fingered them lovingly as he peered through his big hornglasses.

He saw Miss Emily looking at him and smiling. "It was the whiteelephant that brought me in. He was made in Germany?"

"Yes."

"It is not easy to get them any more?"

"No. You see I have a little card on him 'Not for sale.'"

He nodded. "I should like to buy him—"

She shook her head. "I have refused many offers."

"I can understand that. Yet, perhaps if I should tell you?"

There was a slight trace of foreign accent in his speech. Shestiffened. She felt that he was capable of calling her "Fräulein."There was not the least doubt in her mind as to the Teutonic extractionof this gentleman who was shamelessly trying to induce her to sell herelephant.

"I can't imagine any reason that would make me change my mind."

"My father is German; he makes toys."

She showed her surprise. "Makes toys?"

"Yes. He is an old man—eighty-five. He was born in Nuremberg. Untilhe was twenty-five he made elephants like the one in your window. Nowdo you see?"

She was not sure that she did see. "Well?"

"I want him for my father's Christmas present."

"Impossible," coldly; "he is not for sale."

He was still patient. "He will make you another—many others."

He had her attention now. "Make—elephants?"

"Yes. He needs only a pattern. There are certain things he hasforgotten. I should like to make him happy."

Miss Emily, hostilely convinced that it was not her business tocontribute to the happiness of any octogenarian Hun, shook her head,"I'm sorry."

"Then you won't sell him?"

"Certainly not."

He still lingered. "You love your toys—I have been here before, and Ihave watched you. They are not just sawdust and wood and cloth andpaint to you—they are real—"

"Yes."

"My father is like that. They are real to him. There's an old waxdoll that was my mother's. He loves her and talks to her—. Becauseshe was made in that Germany which is dead—"

The fierceness in his voice, the flash of his eye; the thrust of hishand as if it held a rapier!

"Dead?"

"The Germany he knew died when Prussia throttled her. Her poetry died,her music—there is no echo now from the Rhine but that of—guns."

"You feel—that way—?"

"Yes."

"Then sit down and tell me—tell me—" She was eager.

"Tell you what?"

"About your father, about the toys, about the Germany that is—dead."

He was glad to tell her. It poured forth, with now and then anoffending phrase, "Gott in Himmel, do they think we have forgotten? Myfather came to America because he loved freedom—he fought in the CivilWar for freedom—he loves freedom still; and over there they arefighting for slavery. The slavery of the little nations, the slaveryof those who love democracy. They want Prussia, and more Prussia, andmore Prussia—" He struck his hand on the counter so that all thedolls danced.

"They are fighting to get the whole world under an iron heel—tocrush—to grind—to destroy. My father reads it and weeps. He is anold man, Fräulein, and his mind goes back to the Germany which sang andtold fairy tales, and made toys; do you see?

"Yet there are people here who do not understand, who point theirfingers at him, at me. Who think because I am Ulrich Stölle that I amnot—American. Yet what am I but that?"

He got up and walked around the room restlessly. "I am an American.If I was not born here, can I help that? But my heart has been mouldedhere. For me there is no other country. Germany I love—yes, but asone loves a woman who has been led away—because one thinks of thethings she might have been, not of the thing she is."

He came back to her. "Will you sell me your elephant, Fräulein?"

She held out her hand to him. Her eyes were wet. "I will lend him toyour father. Indeed, I cannot sell him."

He took her hand in a strong grasp. "I knew you were kind. If youcould only see my father."

"Bring him here some day."

"He is too old to be brought. He sticks close to his chair. But ifyou would come and see him? You and perhaps the young lady who waitedon me when I came before, and who was here to-day with the young manwhose heart is singing."

"Oh, you saw that?"

"It was there for the whole world to see, was it not? A man in lovehides nothing. You will bring them then? We have flowers even inDecember in our hothouses; you will like that, and you shall see myfather. I think you will love my father, Fräulein."

After he had gone she wondered at herself. She had trusted herprecious elephant to a perfect stranger. He might be anything, a spy,a thief, with his "Gotts in Himmel" and his "Fräuleins"—how Jean wouldlaugh at her for her softheartedness!

Oh, but he wasn't a thief, he wasn't a spy. He was a poet and agentleman. She made very few mistakes in her estimates of the peoplewho came to her shop. She had made, she was sure, no mistake intrusting Ulrich Stölle.

Jean and Derry motoring to Chevy Chase were far away from the world ofthe Toy Shop. As they whirled along the country roads the bare treesseemed to bud and bloom for them, the sky was gold.

The lovely clubhouse as they came into it was gay with big-floweredcurtains and warm with its roaring fires.

As they crossed the room together, they attracted much attention.There was about them a fine air of exaltation—.

"Young blood, young blood," said an old gentleman in a corner. "Gad, Ienvy him. Look at her eyes—!"

But there was more than her eyes to look at. There were her cheeks,and her crinkled copper hair under the little hat, and the flower thatshe wore, and her white hands as she poured the tea.

They drank unlimited quantities of Orange Pekoe, and ate smallmountains of toast. They were healthily happy and quite unexpectedlyhungry, and the fact that they were sitting alone at the table gave thewhole thing an enchanting atmosphere of domesticity.

"Ralph spoiled it the other day," Jean confided, "I had everythingready for you."

"How I hated him when I came in."

"Oh, did you?"

"Of course," and then they both laughed, and the old gentleman in thecorner said to the woman who sat with him, "Let's get away. I can'tstand it."

"I don't see why."

"You wouldn't see. But there was a time once when I loved a girl likethat."

Drusilla and Captain Hewes coming in, after a canter through the Park,broke in upon the Paradise of the young pair.

Drusilla in riding togs still managed to preserve the picturesquequality of her beauty—a co*ckade in her hat, a red flower in her lapel,a blue tie against her white shirt.

"And she does it so well," Derry said, as the two came towards them."In most women it would have an air of bad taste, but Drusilla nevergoes too far—"

Captain Hewes in tow showed himself a captured man. "I didn't knowthat American women could ride until Miss Gray showed me—today. Itwas rippin'."

Drusilla laughed. "It is worth more than the ride to have you say'rippin'' like that."

"She makes fun of me," the Captain complained; "some day I shall takeher over to England and show her how our gentle maidens look up to me."

"Your gentle maidens," Drusilla stated, "are driving ambulances ormaking munitions. When the Tommies come marching home again they willfind comrades, not clinging vines."

"And they'll jolly well like it," said the big Englishman; "a man wantsa woman who understands—"

This was law and gospel to Derry. "Of course. Jean, dear, may I tellDrusilla?"

"As if you had to tell me," Drusilla scoffed; "it is written all overyou."

"Is it?" Derry marvelled.

"It is. The whole room is lighted up with it. You are a lucky man,Derry,"—for a moment her bright eyes were shadowed—"and Jean is alucky girl." She leaned down and kissed the woman that Derry loved."Oh, you Babes in the Wood—"

"By Jove," the Captain ejacul*ted, much taken by the little scene, "doyou mean that they are going to be married?"

"Rather," Drusilla mocked him. "But don't shout it from the housetops.Derry is a public personage, and it might get in the papers."

"It is not to get in the papers yet," Derry said. "Dr. McKenzie won'tlet me tell Dad—he's too ill—but we told you because you are my goodfriend, Drusilla."

She might have been more than that, but he did not know it. When hewent away with Jean, she looked after him wistfully.

"Good-bye, little Galahad," she said.

The Captain stared. "Oh, I say, do you call him that?"

She nodded.

"He's a knight in shining armor—"

"I can't understand why he's not fightin'."

"Nobody understands. There's something back of it, and meantime peopleare calling him a coward—"

"Doesn't look like a slacker."

"He isn't. I have sometimes thought," said wise Drusilla, "that itmight be his father. He's a gay old bird, and Derry has to jack himup."

"Drink?"

"Yes. They say that Derry has followed him night after night—gettinghim home if he could; if not, staying with him."

"Hard lines—"

"And yet he is asking little Jean to marry him. I wonder if she willkeep step with him."

"Why shouldn't she?"

"Because Derry is going to travel far and fast in the next few months,"Drusilla prophesied.

Her face settled into tired lines. For the first time the Captain sawher divorced from her radiance. He set himself to cheer her.

"What is troubling you, dear woman?"

She was very frank, and she told him the truth. "I should have beenglad to keep step with him myself."

He laid his hand over hers. "If you had, where would I be? From themoment I saw you, you filled my heart."

So, after all, she had been to him from the first, not a type but awoman. It had come to him like that, but not to her. "You're thebravest and best man I have ever met," she told him, "but I don't loveyou."

"I should be glad to wait," said the poor Captain, "until you couldfind something in me to like."

"I find a great deal to like," she said, "but it wouldn't be fair togive you anything less than love."

"At least you'll let me have your friendship—to take back with me."

She looked at him, startled. "Oh, you are going back?"

"I may get my orders any day. There are things I can be doing overthere."

Some day she was to see him "over there," to see him against abackground of fire and flame and smoke, to see him transfigured byheroism, and she was to remember then with an aching heart this momentwhen he had told her that he loved her.

It was dark when Derry brought Jean home. There had been a sunset andan afterglow, and a twilight, and an evening star to ravish them asthey rode, to say nothing of the moon—they came to the Doctor's doorquite dizzy with the joy of it.

Derry was loath to leave. "Can't we all go to a play tonight?" heasked Jean's father. "You and Miss Bridges and the two of us?"

"Certainly not. Jean has done enough to-day. She isn't made of iron."

"She is made of fire and dew," Derry flung at him, lightly.

"Heavens, has it come to that? Well, she is still my daughter. Iwon't have her ill on my hands."

"But, Daddy!"

"You are to have a quiet dinner with me, my dear, and go to bed—andyoung Lochinvar may call for you in the morning—"

Young Lochinvar was repentant. "I didn't think it would tire her."

"Henceforth you will have to think."

"I know, sir."

He was so meek that the Doctor melted. "Run along and say 'Good-bye'to her. I'll give you ten minutes."

They wanted ten eternities. But there was, of course, tomorrow. Theycomforted themselves with that.

At dinner, the Doctor spoke of Derry's father. "All real danger ispast, but he will have to be careful."

"When is Hilda coming back?"

"She told me last night that she'd rather stay until there was nofurther need for a nurse. The General hates a change, and he has askedher to stay."

"Does she like it?"

"She is very comfortable."

"Derry says that his father is an old dear."

"He would think so, naturally."

There were things about the General's case which were troubling Dr.McKenzie, and of which he could not speak. The old man had,undoubtedly been given something to drink on Thanksgiving Day.

Hilda had had strict orders, and the day nurse, and the only otherperson who had had access to the General's room was Bronson. He hadmade up his mind to speak to Derry about Bronson.

The meal progressed rather silently. The Doctor was preoccupied,taciturn. Miss Emily made futile efforts at conversation. Jeandallied with her dinner.

"My dear," the Doctor commented as she pushed away her salad, "youcan't live on love."

"I'm not hungry. We had tea at the Club. Drusilla was there—and—wetold her."

"Told her what?"

Blushing furiously, "That Derry and I are going to be—married."

"But you are not. Not for months. If that cub thinks he can carry youoff from under my eyes he is mistaken. You've got to get acquaintedwith each other—I have seen too many unhappy marriages."

"But we are not going to be unhappy, Daddy."

"How do you know?"

Her cheeks were blazing. Miss Emily interposed. "Don't tease her,she's too tired."

"If he is teasing, I don't care," Jean said, "but it always sounds asif he meant it."

After dinner, the Doctor laid his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Iwant to talk to you, daughter."

"Is it about Derry, Daddy?"

"About myself."

Emily, understanding, left them alone. Jean sat in her low chair infront of the fire, her earnest eyes on her father. "Well, Daddy."

He patted her hand. It was hard for him to speak.

She saw his emotion. "Is—is it because I am going to marry Derry?"

"That, and more than that. Jean, dear, I must go to France—"

"To France?"

"Yes. They want me to head a hospital. I don't see how I can refuse,and keep my self-respect. But it means—leaving you."

"Leaving me—"

"My little girl—don't look like that." He reached out his arms to her.

She came, and clung to him. "How soon?"

"As soon as I can wind things up here."

"It—it seems as if I couldn't let you."

"Then you'll miss me, dearest?"

"You know I will, Daddy."

"But you will have your Derry." His jealousy forced that.

"As if it makes any difference about—you."

She hid her face against his coat. She felt suddenly that the war wasassuming a new and very personal aspect. Of course men had to go. Butshe and her father had never been separated—not for more than a day orweek, or a month when she was at the shore.

"How long, Daddy?"

"God knows, dearest. Until I am not needed."

"But—" her lip trembled.

"You are going to be my brave little girl."

"I'll try—" the tears were running down her cheeks.

"You wouldn't have me not go, would you?"

She shook her head and sobbed on his shoulder. He soothed her andpresently she sat up. Quite gallantly she agreed that she would staywith Emily. If he thought she was too young to marry Derry now, shewould wait. If Derry went into it, it might be easier to let him go asa lover than as a husband—she thought it might be easier. Yes, shewould try to sleep when she went upstairs—and she would remember thather old Daddy loved her, loved her, and she was to ask God to blesshim—and keep him—when they were absent one from the other—.

She kissed him and clung to him and then went upstairs. She undressedand said her prayers, put Polly-Ann on her cushion, turned off thelight, and got into bed.

Then she lay in the dark, facing it squarely.

The things she had said to her father were not true. She didn't wanthim to go to France. She didn't want Derry to go. She was glad thatDerry's mother had made him promise. She didn't care who called him acoward. She cared only to keep her own.

There wasn't any sense in it, anyhow. Why should Daddy and Derry beblown to pieces—or made blind—or not come back at all? Just becausea barbarian had brought his hordes into Belgium? Well, let Belgiumtake care of herself—and France.

She shuddered deeper down into the bed. She wasn't heroic. Hilda hadbeen right about that. She was willing to knit miles and miles ofwool, to go without meat, to go without wheat, to wear old clothes, tolet the furnace go out and sit shivering in one room by a wood fire,she was willing to freeze and to starve, but she was not willing tosend her men to France.

She found herself shaking, sobbing—.

Hitherto war had seemed a glorious thing, an inspiring thing. She hadthrilled to think that she was living in a time which matched the daysof Caesar and Alexander and of Napoleon, of that first Richard ofEngland, of Charlemagne, of Nelson and of Francis Drake, of Grant andLee and Lincoln.

Even in fiction there had been Ivanhoe and—and Alan Breck—and evenpoor Rawdon Crawley at Waterloo—fighters all, even the poorest ofthem, exalted in her eyes by their courage and the clash of arms.

But there wasn't any glory, any romance in this war. It was machineguns and bombs and dirt, and cold and mud; and base hospitals, and menscreaming with awful wounds—and gas, and horrors, and nerve-shockand—frightfulness. She had read it all in the papers and in themagazines. And it had not meant anything to her, it had been justwords and phrases, and now it was more than words and phrases—.

When the hordes of people had swept into Washington, changing it fromits gracious calm into a seething and unsettling center of activities,she had been borne along on the wings of enthusiasm and of highendeavor. She had scolded women who would not work, she had scornedmothers and wives who had sighed and sobbed because their men must go.She had talked of patriotism!

Well, she wasn't patriotic. Derry would probably hate her when shetold him. But she was going to tell him. She wouldn't have him blownto pieces or made blind or not come back at all. And in the morning,she would beg Daddy—she would beg and beg!

As she sat up in bed and looked wildly about her, it seemed as if allthe corners of the little room were haunted by specters. A long timeago she had seen Maude Adams in "L'Aiglon." She remembered now thosewailing voices of the dead at Wagram. And in this war millions of menhad died. It seemed to her that their souls must be pressing againstthe wall which divided them from the living—that their voices mustpenetrate the stillness which had always shut them out. "How dare yougo on with it? Are men made only for this?"

She remembered now the thing that her father had said on the nightafter "Cinderella."

"If I had my way, it should be an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.For every man that they have tortured, we must torture one of theirs.For every child mutilated, we must mutilate a child—for every woman—"

Her Daddy had said that. Her kind and tender Daddy. Was that what thewar made of men? Would Daddy and Derry, when they went over, do that?Torture and mutilate? Would they, would they? And would they comeback after that and expect her to love them and live with them?

Well, she wouldn't. She would not. She would be afraid of them—ofboth of them.

If they loved her, they would stay with her. They wouldn't go away andleave her to be afraid—alone and crying in the dark, with all of thosedead voices.

Emily tapped at the door. Came in. "My dear, my dear—. Oh, my poorlittle Jean."

After a long time her father was there, and he was giving her a whitetablet and a drink of water.

"It will quiet her nerves, Emily. I didn't dream that she would takeit like this."

CHAPTER XIV

SHINING SOULS

The next morning Jean was ill. Derry, having the news conveyed to himover the telephone, rushed in to demand tragically of Dr. McKenzie,"Was it my fault?"

"It was the fault of too much excitement. Seventh heaven with you forhours, and then my news on top of it."

"What news?"

The Doctor explained. "It is going to tear me to pieces if she takesit like this. She was half-delirious all night, and begged andbegged—"

"She doesn't want you to go?"

The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, we've been a lotto each other. But she's such a little sport—and patriotic—nobodymore so. She won't feel this way when she's herself again."

Derry stood drearily at the window looking out. "You think then shewon't be able to see me for several days? I had planned such a lot ofthings."

The Doctor dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Life has a way ofspoiling our plans, hasn't it? I had hoped for old age with Jean'smother."

That was something for youth to think of—of life spoiling things—oflonely old age!

"I wish," Derry said, after a pause, "that you'd let me marry herbefore you go."

"No, no," sharply, "she's too young, Drake. And you haven't known eachother long enough."

"Things move rapidly in these days, sir."

The Doctor agreed. "It is one of the significant developments. We hadbecome material. And now fire and flame. But all the more reason whyI should keep my head. Jean will be safe here with Emily. And you maygo any day."

"I wish I might think so. I'd be there now if I weren't bound."

"It won't hurt either of you to wait until I come back," was theDoctor's ultimatum, and Derry, longing for sympathy, left him presentlyand made his way to the Toy Shop.

"If we were to wait ten years do you think I'd love her any more than Ido now?" he demanded of Emily. "I should think he'd understand."

"Men never do understand," said Emily—"fathers. They think their ownromance was unique, or they forget that there was ever any romance."

"If you could put in a word for us," ventured Derry.

"I am not sure that it would do any good; Bruce is a Turk."

A customer came, and Derry lingered disconsolately while Emily servedher. More customers, among them a tall spare man with an upstandingbush of gray hair. He had a potted plant in his arms, wrapped intissue paper. He set it on the counter and went away.

When Miss Emily discovered the plant, she asked Derry, "Who put itthere?"

Derry described the man. "You were busy. He didn't stop."

The plant was a cyclamen, blood-red and beautiful.

Miss Emily managed to remark casually that she had loaned his father anelephant, perhaps he had felt that he ought to make some return—but heneedn't—.

"An elephant?"

"Not a real one. But the last of my plush beauties."

She set the cyclamen on a shelf, and wrapped up the parcel of toyswhich Derry had bought the day before, "I may as well take them toMargaret Morgan's kiddies," he told her. "I want to tell her aboutJean."

After Derry had gone, Miss Emily stood looking at the cyclamen on theshelf. It was a lovely thing, with a dozen blooms. She wished thather benefactor had stayed to let her thank him. She was not sure thatshe even knew where to send a note.

She hunted him up in the telephone book, and found him—Ulrich Stölle.His hot-houses were on the old Military Road. She remembered now tohave seen them, and to have remarked the house, which was peaked up inseveral gables, and had quaint brightly-colored iron figures set aboutthe garden—with pointed caps like the graybeards in Rip van Winkle, orthe dwarf in Rumpelstiltzkin.

When Derry's car slid up to Margaret's door, he saw the two children atan upper window. They waved to him as he rang the bell. He waitedseveral moments and no one came to open the door. He turned the knoband, finding it unlatched, let himself in.

As he went through the hall he was aware of a strange stillness. Not amaid was in sight. Passing Margaret's room on the second floor heheard voices.

The children were alone in the nursery. He was flooded with sunlight.Margaret-Mary's pink wash frock, Teddy's white linen—yellow jonquilsin a blue bow—snowy lambs gambolling on a green frieze—Bo-peeps,flying ribbons—it was a cheering and charming picture.

"How gay you are," said Derry.

"We are not gay in our hearts," Teddy told him.

"Why not?"

"Mother's crying—we heard her, and then Nurse went down and left us,and we looked out of the window and you came."

Derry's heart seemed to stop beating. "Crying?"

Even as he spoke, Margaret stood on the threshold. There were notears, but it was worse than tears.

He started towards her, but with a gesture she stopped him.

"I am so glad you are—here," she said.

"My dear—what is it?"

She put her hand up to her head. "Teddy, dearest," she asked, "can youtake care of Margaret-Mary until Cousin Derry comes back? I want totalk to him."

Teddy's grave eyes surveyed her. "You've been cryin'," he said, "Itold Cousin Derry—"

"Yes. I have had—bad news. But—I am not going to cry—any more.And you'll take care of sister?"

"I tell you, old chap," said Derry resourcefully, "you andMargaret-Mary can open my parcel, and when I come back we'll all playtogether."

Outside with Margaret, with the door shut on the children, he put hisarm about her. "Is it Win—is he—hurt?"

"He is—oh, Derry, Derry, he is dead!"

Even then she did not cry. "The children mustn't know. Not till I geta grip on myself. They mustn't think of it as—sad. They must thinkof it as—glorious—that he went—that way—."

Held close in his arms, she shook with sobs, silent, hard. He carriedher down to her room. The maids were gathered there—Nurse utterlyuseless in her grief. It came to Derry, as he bent over Margaret, thathe had always thought of Nurse as a heartless automaton, playing Chorusto Teddy, yet here she was, a weeping woman with the rest of them.

He sent all of the servants away, except Nurse, and then Margaret toldhim, "He was in one of the French towns which the Germans had vacated,and he happened to pick up a toy—that some little child might havedropped—-and there was an explosive hidden in it—and that child's toykilled him, Derry, killed him—"

"My God, Margaret—"

"They had put it there that it might kill a—child!"

"Derry, the children mustn't know how it happened. They mustn't thinkof him as—hurt. They know that something is the matter. Can you tellthem, Derry? So that they will think of him as fine and splendid, andgoing up to Heaven because God loves brave men—?"

It was a hard task that she had set him, and when at last he left her,he went slowly up the stairs.

The children had strung the Midnight Camels across the room, thepurple, patient creatures that Jean had made.

"The round rug is an oasis," Teddy explained, "and the jonquil is apalm—and we are going to save the dates and figs from our lunch."

"I want my lunch," Margaret-Mary complained.

Derry looked at his watch. It was after twelve. The servants were alldemoralized. "See here," he said, "you sit still for a moment, andI'll go down for your tray."

He brought it up himself, presently, bread and milk and fruit.

They sat on the oasis and ate, with the patient purple camels groupedin the shade of the jonquil palm.

Then Derry asked, "Shall I tell you the story of How the Purple CamelsCame to Paradise?"

"Yes," they said, and he gathered little Margaret-Mary into his arms,and Teddy lay flat on the floor and looked up at him, while Derry madehis difficult way towards the thing he had to tell.

"You see, the purple camels belonged to the Three Wise Men, the oneswho journeyed, after the Star—do you remember? And found the littlebaby who was the Christ? And because the purple camels had followedthe Star, the good Lord said to them, 'Some day you shall journeytowards Paradise, and there you shall see the shining souls that dwellin happiness.'"

"Do their souls really shine?" Teddy asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the light in Paradise—the warm, sweet light, clearer thanthe sunshine, Teddy, brighter than the moon and the stars—."

The children sighed rapturously. "Go on," Teddy urged.

"So the patient camels began their wonderful pilgrimage—they crossedthe desert and rounded a curve of the sea, and at last they came toParadise, and the gate was shut and they knelt in front of it, and theyheard singing, and the sound of silver trumpets, and at last the gateswung back, and they saw—what do you think they saw?"

"The shining souls," said Teddy, solemnly.

"Yes, the shining souls in all that lovely light—there were the soulsof happy little children, and of good women, but best of all," hisvoice wavered a little, "best of all, there were the souls of—bravemen."

"My father is a brave man."

Was, oh, little Teddy!

"And the purple camels said to the angels who guarded the gate, 'Wehave come because we saw the little Christ in the manger.'

"And the angel said, 'It is those who see Him who enter Paradise,' Sothe patient purple camels went in and the gates were shut behind them,and there they will live in the warm, sweet light throughout thedeathless ages."

"What are de-yethless ages, Cousin Derry?"

"Forever and ever."

"Is that all?"

"It is all about the camels—but not all about the shining souls."

"Tell us the rest."

He knew that he was bungling it, but at last he brought them to thethought of their father in Paradise, because the dear Lord loved tohave him there.

"But if he's there, he can't be here," said the practical Teddy.

"No."

"I want him here. Doesn't Mother want him here?"

"Well—yes."

"Is she glad to have him go to Paradise?"

"Not exactly—glad."

"Was that why she was crying?"

"Yes. Of course she will miss him, but it is a wonderful thing justthe same, Teddy, when you think of it—when you think of how your ownfather went over to France because he was sorry for all the poor littlechildren who had been hurt, and for all the people who had suffered andsuffered until it seemed as if they must not suffer any more—and hewanted to help them, and—and—"

But here he stumbled and stopped. "I tell you, Teddy," he said, as manto man, "it is going to hurt awfully, not to see him. But you've gotto be careful not to be too sorry—because there's your Mother to thinkof."

"Is she crying now?"

"Yes. Down there on her bed. Could you be very brave if you wentdown, and told her not to be sorry?"

"Brave, like my Daddy?"

"Yes."

Margaret-Mary was too young to understand—she was easily comforted.Derry sang a little song and her eyes drooped.

But downstairs the little son who was brave like his father, sat on theedge of the bed, and held his mother's hand. "He's in Paradise withthe purple camels, Mother, and he's a shining soul—."

It was a week before Jean went with Derry to see Margaret. It had beena week of strange happenings, of being made love to by Derry and ofgetting Daddy ready to go away. She had reached heights and depths,alternately. She had been feverishly radiant when with her lover. Shehad resolved that she would not spoil the wonder of these days byletting him know her state of mind.

The nights were the worst. None of them were as bad as the firstnight, but her dreams were of battles and bloodshed, and she waked inthe mornings with great heaviness of spirit.

What Derry had told her of Margaret's loss seemed but a confirmation ofher fears. It was thus that men went away and never returned—. Oh,how Hilda would have triumphed if she could have looked into Jean'sheart with its tremors and terrors!

She came, thus, into the room, where Margaret sat with her children.

"I want you two women to meet," Derry said, as he presented Jean,"because you are my dearest—"

"He has told me so much about you,"—Margaret put her arm about Jeanand kissed her—"and he has used all the adjectives—yet none of themwas adequate."

Jean spoke tensely. "It doesn't seem right for us to bring ourhappiness here."

"Why not? This has always been the place of happiness?" She caughther breath, then went on quickly, "You mustn't think that I amheartless. But if the women who have lost should let themselvesdespair, it would react on the living. The wailing of women means theweakness of men. I believe that so firmly that I am afraid to—cry."

"You are braver than I—" slowly.

"No. You'd feel the same way, dear child, about Derry."

"No. I should not. I shouldn't feel that way at all. I shoulddie—if I lost Derry—"

Light leaped in her lover's eyes. But he shook his head. "She'd bearit like other brave women. She doesn't know herself, Margaret."

"None of us do. Do you suppose that the wives and mothers of Franceever dreamed that it would be their fortitude which would hold theenemy back?"

"Do you think it did, really?" Jean asked her.

"I know it. It has been a barrier as tangible as a wall of rock."

"You put an awful responsibility upon the women."

"Why not? They are the mothers of men."

They sat down after that; and Jean listened frozenly while Margaret andDerry talked. The children in front of the fire were looking at thepictures in a book which Derry had brought.

Teddy, stretched at length on the rug in his favorite attitude, wasreading to Margaret-Mary. His mop of bright hair, his flushed cheeks,his active gestures spoke of life quick in his young body—.

And his father was—dead—!

Oh, oh, Mothers of men—!

CHAPTER XV

HILDA BREAKS THE RULES

It was Dr. McKenzie who told Hilda of Jean's engagement to Derry Drake.

"I thought it best for them not to say anything to the General until heis better. So you may consider it confidential, Hilda."

"Of course."

She had come to his office to help him with his books. The nurse whosomewhat inadequately supplied her place was having an afternoon off.The Doctor had been glad to see her, and had told her so. "I am afraidthings are in an awful muddle."

"Not so bad that they can't be straightened out in an hour or two."

"I don't see why you insist upon staying on the General's case. Ishouldn't have sent you if I had thought you'd keep at it like this."

"I always keep at things when I begin them, don't I?"

He knew that she did. It was one of the qualities which made hervaluable. "I believe that you are staying away to let me see how hardit is to get along without you."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea, but that's not the reason. I am stayingbecause I like the case." She shifted the topic away from herself.

"People will say that Jean has played her cards well."

He blazed, "What do you mean, Hilda?"

"He has a great deal of money."

"What has that to do with it?"

Her smile was irritating. "Oh, I know you are not mercenary. But amillion or two won't come amiss in any girl's future—and two countryhouses, and a house in town."

"You seem to know all about it."

"The General talks a lot—and anyhow, all the world knows it. It's nosecret."

"I rather think that Jean doesn't know it. I haven't told her. Sherealizes that he is rich, but it doesn't seem to have made muchimpression on her."

"Most people will think she is lucky to have caught him."

"He is not a fish," with rising anger, "and as for Jean, she'd marryhim if he hadn't a penny, and you know it, Hilda."

Hilda considered that for a moment. Then she said, "Is it his money orhis father's?"

"Belongs to the old man. Derry's mother had nothing but anirreproachable family tree."

Hilda's long hands were clasped on the desk, her eyes were upon them."If he shouldn't like his son's marriage, he might make thingsuncomfortable."

"Why shouldn't he like my Jean?"

"He probably will. But there's always the chance that he may not. Hemay be more ambitious."

Dr. McKenzie ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "She's goodenough for—a king."

"You think that, naturally, but he isn't the doting father of an onlydaughter."

"If he thinks that my daughter isn't good enough for his son—"

"You needn't shout at me like that," calmly; "but he knows as well asyou do that Derry Drake's millions could get him any girl."

He had a flashing sense of the coarse fiber of Hilda's mental make-up."My Jean is a well-born and well-bred woman," he said, slowly. "It isa thing that money can't buy."

"Money buys a very good counterfeit. Lots of the women who come herearen't ladies, not in the sense that you mean it, but on the surfaceyou can't tell them apart."

He knew that it was true. No one knows better than a doctor what isbeneath the veneer of social convention and personal hypocrisy.

"And as for Jean," her quiet voice analyzed, "what do you know of her,really? You've kept her shut away from the things that could hurt her,but how do you know what will happen when you open the gate?"

Yet Emily had said—? His hand came down on top of the desk. "I thinkwe won't discuss Jean."

"Very well, but you brought it on yourself. And now please go away,I've got to finish this and get back—"

He went reluctantly, and returned to say, "You'll come over againbefore I sail, and straighten things out for me?"

"Of course."

"You don't act as if you cared whether I went or not."

"I care, of course. But don't expect me to cry. I am not the cryingkind." The little room was full of sunlight. She was very pink andwhite and self-possessed. She smiled straight up into his face. "Whatgood would it do me to cry?"

After she had left him he was restless. She had been for so long apart of his life, a very necessary and pleasant part of it. She nevertouched his depths or rose to his heights. She seemed to beckon, yetnot to care when he came.

He spoke of her that night to Emily. "Hilda was here to-day and shereminded me that people might think that my daughter is marrying DerryDrake for his money."

"She would look at it like that."

"When Hilda talks to me"—he was rumpling his hair—"I have a feelingthat all the people in the world are unlovely—"

"There are plenty of unlovely people," said Emily, "but why should weworry with what they think?"

She was knitting, and he found himself watching her hands. "You havepretty hands," he told her, unexpectedly.

She held them out in front of her. "When I was a little girl my mothertold me that I had three points of beauty—my hands, my feet, and thefamily nose," she smiled whimsically, "and she assured me that I wouldtherefore never be common-place. 'Any woman may be beautiful,' was hertheory, 'but only a woman with good blood in her veins can have handsand feet and a nose like yours—.' I was dreadfully handicapped in thebeginning of my life by my mother's point of view. I am afraid thateven now if the dear lady looks down from Heaven and sees me working inmy Toy Shop she will feel the family disgraced by this one member whois in trade. It was only in the later years that I found myself, thatI realized how I might reach out towards things which were broader andbigger than the old ideals of aristocratic birth and inheritedpossessions."

He thought of Hilda. "Yet it gave you something, Emily," he said,slowly, "that not every woman has: good-breeding, and the ability tolook above the sordid. You are like Jean—all your world isrose-colored."

She was thoughtful. "Not quite like Jean. I heard a dear old bishopask the other day why we should see only the ash cans and garbage cansin our back yards when there was blue sky above? I know there are ashcans and garbage cans, but I make myself look at the sky. Jean doesn'tknow that the cans are there."

"The realists will tell you that you should keep your eyes on the cans."

"I don't believe it," said Miss Emily, stoutly; "more people are madegood by the contemplation of the fine and beautiful than by theknowledge of evil. Eve knew that punishment would follow the eating ofthe apple. But she ate it. If I had a son I should tell him of thestrength of men, not of their weaknesses."

He nodded. "I see. And yet there is this about Hilda. She does notdeceive herself;—perhaps you do—and Jean."

"Perhaps it is Hilda who is deceived. All the people in the world arenot unlovely—all of them are not mercenary and deceitful and selfish."Her cheeks were flushed.

"Nobody knows that better than a doctor, Emily. I am conscious thatHilda draws out the worst in me—yet there is something about her thatmakes me want to find things out, to explore life with her—"

He was smiling into the fire. Miss Emily girded herself and gave him ashock. "The trouble with you is that you want the admiration of everywoman who comes your way. Most of your patients worship you—Jean putsyou on a pedestal—even I tell you that you have a soul. But Hildawithholds the admiration you demand, and you want to conquer her—tosee her succumb with the rest of us."

"The rest of you! Emily, you have never succumbed."

"Oh, yes, I have. I seem to be saying, 'He may have a few weaknesses,but back of it all he is big and fine.' But Hilda's attitudeindicates, 'He is not fine at all.' And you hate that and want to showher."

He chuckled. "By Jove, I do, Emily. Perhaps it is just as well that Iam getting away from her."

"I wouldn't admit it if I were you. I'd rather see you face a thingthan run away."

"If Eve had run away from the snake in the apple tree, she would nothave lost her Eden—poor Eve."

"Poor Adam—to follow her lead. He should have said, 'No, my dear,apples are not permitted by the Food Administrator; we must practiceself-denial.'"

"I think I'd rather have him sinning than such a prig."

"It depends on the point of view."

He enjoyed immensely crossing swords with Emily. There was never anyaftermath of unpleasantness. She soothed him even while she criticised.

They spoke presently of Jean and Derry.

"They want to get married."

"Well, why not?"

"She's too young, Emily. Too ignorant of what life means—and he maygo to France any day. He is getting restless—and he may see thingsdifferently—that his duty to his country transcends any personalclaim—and then what of Jean?—a little wife—alone."

"She could stay with me."

"But marriage, marriage, Emily—why in Heaven's name should they bein such a hurry?"

"Why should they wait, and miss the wonder of it all, as I have missedit—all the color and glow, the wine of life? Even if he should go toFrance, and die, she will bear his beloved name—she will have theright to weep."

He had never seen her like this—the red was deep in her cheeks, hervoice was shaken, her bosom rose and fell with her agitation.

"Emily, my dear girl—"

"Let them marry, Bruce, can't you see? Can't you see. It is theirday—there may be no tomorrow."

"But there are practical things, Emily. If she should have a child?"

"Why not? It will be his—to love. Only a woman with empty arms knowswhat that means, Bruce."

And this was Emily, this rose-red, wet-eyed creature was Emily, whom hehad deemed unemotional, cold, self-contained!

"Men forget, Bruce. You wouldn't listen to reason when you wooedJean's mother. You were a demanding, imperative lover—you wanted yourown way, and you had it."

"But I had known Jean's mother all my life."

"Time has nothing to do with it."

"My dear girl—"

"It hasn't."

She was illogical, and he liked it. "If I let them marry, what then?"

"They will love you for it."

"They ought to love you instead."

"I shall be out of it. They will be married, and you will be inFrance, and I shall sell—toys—"

She tried to laugh, but it was a poor excuse. He glanced at herquickly. "Shall you miss me, Emily?"

Her hands went out in a little gesture of despair. "There you go,taking my tears to yourself."

He was a bit disconcerted. "Oh, I say—"

"But they are not for you. They are for my lost youth and romance,Bruce. My lost youth and romance."

Leaning back in his chair he studied her. Her eyes were dreamy—therose-red was still in her cheeks. For the first time he realized theprettiness of Emily; it was as if in her plea for others she hadbrought to life something in herself which glowed and sparkled.

"Look here," he said. "I want you to write to me."

"I am a busy woman."

"But a letter now and then—"

"Well, now and then—"

He was forced to be content with that. She was really very charming,he decided as he got into his car. She was such a gentlewoman—shecreated an atmosphere which belonged to his home and hearth.

When he came in late she was not waiting up for him as Hilda had sooften waited. There was a plate of sandwiches on his desk, coffeeready in the percolator to be made by the turning on of theelectricity. But he ate his lunch alone.

Yet in spite of the loneliness, he was glad that Emily had not waitedup for him. It was a thing which Hilda might do—Hilda, who made aworld of her own. But Emily's world was the world of womanlygraciousness and dignity—the world in which his daughter moved, theworld which had been his wife's. For her to have eaten alone with himin his office in the middle of the night would have made her seem lessthan he wanted her to be.

Before he went to bed, he called up Hilda. "I forgot to tell you whenyou were here this afternoon that I asked young Drake about Bronson.He says that it isn't possible that the old man is giving the Generalanything against orders. You'd better watch the other servants and besure of the day nurse—"

"I am sure of her and of the other servants—but I still have my doubtsabout Bronson."

"But Drake says—"

"I don't care what he says. Bronson served the General before heserved young Drake—and he's not to be trusted."

"I should be sorry to think so; he impresses me as a faithful old soul."

"Well, my eyes are rather clear, you know."

"Yes, I know. Good-night, Hilda."

She hung up the receiver. She had talked to him at the telephone inthe lower hall, which was enclosed, and where one might be confidentialwithout feeing overheard.

She sat very still for a few moments in the little booth, thinking;then she rose and went upstairs.

The General was awake and eager.

"Shall I read to you?" Hilda asked.

"No, I'd rather talk."

She shaded the light and sat beside the little table. "Did you likeyour dinner?"

"Yes. Bronson said you made the broth. It was delicious."

"I like to cook—-when I like the people I cook for."

He basked in that.

"There are some patients—oh, I have wanted to salt their coffee andpepper their cereal. You have no idea of the temptations which come toa nurse."

"Are you fond of it—nursing?"

"Yes. It is nice in a place like this—and at Dr. McKenzie's. Butthere are some houses that are awful, with everybody quarrelling, thechildren squalling—. I hate that. I want to be comfortable. I likeyour thick carpets here, and the quiet, and the good service. And thegood things to eat, and the little taste of wine that we taketogether." Her low laugh delighted him.

"The wine? You are going to drink another glass with me before I go tosleep."

"Yes. But it is our secret. Dr. McKenzie would kill me if he knew,and a nurse must obey orders."

"He need never know. And it won't hurt me."

"Of course not. But he has ideas on the subject."

"May I have it now?"

"Wait until Bronson goes to bed."

"Bronson has nothing to do with it. A servant has neither ears noreyes."

"It might embarrass him if the Doctor asked him. And why should youmake him lie?"

Bronson, pottering in, presently, was told that he would not be needed."Mr. Derry telephoned that he would be having supper after the play atMiss Gray's. You can call him there if he is wanted."

"Thank you, Bronson. Good-night."

When the old man had left them, she said to the General, "Do you knowthat your son is falling in love?"

"In love?"

"Yes, desperately—at first sight?"

He laughed. "With whom?"

"Dr. McKenzie's daughter."

"What?" He raised himself on his elbow.

"Yes. Jean McKenzie. I am not sure that I ought to tell you, butsomehow it doesn't seem right that you are not being told—"

He considered it gravely. "I don't want him to get married," he saidat last. "I want him to go to war. I can't tell you, Miss Merritt,how bitter my disappointment has been that Derry won't fight."

"He may have to fight."

"Do you think I want him dragged to defend the honor of his country?I'd rather see him dead." He was struggling for composure.

"Oh, I shouldn't have told you," she said, solicitously.

"Why not? It is my right to know."

"Jean is a pretty little thing, and you may like her."

"I like McKenzie," thoughtfully.

She glanced at him. His old face had fallen into gentler lines. Shegave a hard laugh. "Of course, a rich man like your son rather dazzlesthe eyes of a young girl like Jean."

"You think then it is his—money?"

"I shouldn't like to say that. But, of course, money adds to hischarms."

"He won't have any money," grimly, "unless I choose that he shall. Ican stop his allowance tomorrow. And what would the little lady dothen?"

She shrugged. "I am sure I don't know. She'd probably take RalphWitherspoon. He's in the race. She dropped him after she met yourson."

The General's idea of women was somewhat exalted. He had anold-fashioned chivalry which made him blind to their faults, thechampion of their virtues. He had always been, therefore, to a certainextent, at the mercy of the unscrupulous. He had loaned money and usedhis influence in behalf of certain wily and weeping females who haddeserved at his hands much less than they got.

In his thoughts of a wife for Derry, he had pictured her as sweet andunsophisticated—a bit reserved, like Derry's mother—

The portrait which Hilda had subtly presented was of a mercenary littlecreature, lured by the glitter of gold—off with the old and on withthe new, lacking fineness.

"I can stop his allowance," he wavered. "It would be a good test. ButI love the boy. The war has brought the first misunderstandingsbetween Derry and me. It would have hurt his mother."

Hilda was always restless when the name was introduced of the paintedlady on the stairs. When the General spoke of his wife, his eyes grewkind—and inevitably his thoughts drifted away from Hilda to the daysthat he had spent with Derry's mother.

"She loved us both," he said.

Hilda rose and crossed the room. A low bookcase held the General'sfavorite volumes. There was a Globe edition of Dickens on the topshelf, little fat brown books, shabby with much handling. Hildaextracted one, and inserted her hand in the hollow space back of therow. She brought out a small flat bottle and put the book back.

"I always keep it behind 'Great Expectations,'" she said, as sheapproached the bed. "It seems rather appropriate, doesn't it?"

The old eyes, which had been soft with memories, glistened.

She filled two little glasses. "Let us drink to our—secret."

Then while the wine was firing his veins, she spoke again of Jean andDerry. "It really seems as if he should have told you."

"I won't have him getting married. He can't marry unless he has money."

"Please don't speak of it to him. I don't want to get into trouble.You wouldn't want to get me into trouble, would you?"

"No."

She filled his glass again. He drank. Bit by bit she fed the fire ofhis doubts of his son. When at last he fell asleep in his lacqueredbed he had made up his mind to rather drastic action.

She sat beside him, her thoughts flying ahead into the years. She sawthings as she wanted them to be—Derry at odds with his father; marriedto Jean; herself mistress of this great house, wearing the diamondcrown and the pearl collar; her portrait in the place of the one of thepainted lady on the stairs; looking down on little Jean who had judgedher by youth's narrow standards—whose husband would have no fortuneunless he chose to accept it at her hands.

Thus she weighed her influence over the sleeping sick man, thus shedreamed, calm as fate in her white uniform.

CHAPTER XVI

JEAN-JOAN

Drusilla Gray's little late suppers were rather famous. It was notthat she spent so much money, but that she spent much thought.

Tonight she was giving Captain Hewes a sweet potato pie. "He has nevereaten real American things," she said to Jean. "Nice homey-cookedthings—"

"No one but Drusilla would ever think of pie at night," said MarionGray, "but she has set her heart on it."

There were some very special hot oyster sandwiches which preceded thepie—peppery and savory with curls of bacon.

"I hope you are hungry," said Drusilla as her big black cook broughtthem in. "Aunt Chloe hates to have things go back to the kitchen."

Nothing went back. There was snow without, a white whirl in the air,piling up at street corners, a night for young appetites to be on edge.

"Jove," said the Captain, as he leaned back in his chair, "how I shallmiss all this!"

Jean turned her face towards him, startled. "Miss it?"

"Yes. I am going back—got my orders today."

Drusilla was cutting the pie. "Isn't it glorious?"

Jean gazed at her with something like horror. Glorious! How couldDrusilla go on, like Werther's Charlotte, calmly cutting bread andbutter? Captain Hewes loved her, anybody with half an eye could seethat—and whether she loved him or not, he was her friend—and shecalled his going "glorious!"

"I was afraid my wound might put me on the shelf," the Captain said.

"He is ordered straight to the front," Drusilla elucidated. "This ishis farewell feast."

After that everything was to Jean funeral baked meats. The pie deep inits crust, rich with eggs and milk, defiant of conservation, was assawdust to her palate.

Glorious!

Well, she couldn't understand Margaret. She couldn't understandDrusilla. She didn't want to understand them.

"Some day I shall go over," Drusilla was saying. "I shall drivesomething—it may be a truck and it may be an ambulance. But I can'tsit here any longer doing nothing."

"I think you are doing a great deal," said Jean. "Look at thecommittees you are managing."

"Oh, things like that," said Drusilla contemptuously. "Women's work.I'm not made to knit and keep card indexes. I want a man's job."

There was something almost boyish about her as she said it. She hadparted her hair on the side, which heightened the effect. "In the olddays," she told Captain Hewes, "I should have worn doublet and hose andhave gone as your page."

"Happy old days—."

"And I should have written a ballad about you," said Marion, "and havesung it to the accompaniment of my harp—and my pot-boilers would neverhave been. And we should all have worn trains and picturesqueheaddresses instead of shirtwaists and sports hats, and I should havecalled some man 'my Lord,' and have listened for his footsteps insteadof ending my days in single blessedness with a type-writer as myclosest companion."

Everybody laughed except Jean. She broke her cheese into small bitswith her fork, and stared down at it as if cheese were the mostinteresting thing in the whole wide world.

It was only two weeks since they had had the news of Margaret'shusband—only a month since he had died. And Winston had been CaptainHewes' dear friend; he had been Derry's. Would anybody laugh if Derryhad been dead only fourteen days?

She tried, however, to swing herself in line with the others. "Shallyou go before Christmas?" she asked the Captain.

"Yes. And Miss Gray had asked me to dine with her. You can see what Iam missing—my first American Christmas."

"We are going to have a little tree," said Drusilla, "and ask all ofyou to come and hang presents on it."

Jean had always had a tree at Christmas time. From the earliest daysof her remembrance, there had been set in the window of the littledrawing room, a young pine brought from the Doctor's country-place farup in Maryland. On Christmas Eve it had been lighted and the doorsthrown open. Jean could see her mother now, shining on one side of it,and herself coming in, in her nurse's arms.

There had been a star at the top, and snow powdered on thebranches—and gold and silver balls—and her presents piledbeneath—always a doll holding out its arms to her. There had been thefirst Rosie-Dolly, more beloved than any other; made of painted cloth,with painted yellow curls, and dressed in pink with a white apron.Rosie was a wreck of a doll now, her features blurred and her head baldwith the years—but Jean still loved her, with something left over ofthe adoration of her little girl days. Then there was Maude, named inhonor of the lovely lady who had played "Peter Pan," and the last dollthat Jean's mother had given her. Maude had an outfit for everycharacter in which Jean had seen her prototype—there were the rowanberries and shawl of "Babbie," the cap and jerkin of "Peter Pan," thefeathers and spurs of "Chantecler"—such a trunkful, and her dearestmother had made them all—.

And Daddy! How Daddy had played Santa Claus, in red cloth and fur witha wide belt and big boots, every year, even last year when she wasnineteen and ready to make her bow to society. And now he might neverplay Santa Claus again—for before Christmas had come he would be onthe high seas, perhaps on the other side of the seas—at the edge of NoMan's Land. And there would be no Star, no dolls, no gold and silverballs—for the nation which had given Santa Claus to the world, hadrobbed the world of peace and of goodwill. It had robbed the world ofChristmas!

She came back to hear the Captain saying, "I want you to sing forme—Drusilla."

They rose and went into the other room.

"Tired, dearest?" Derry asked, as he found a chair for her and drew hisown close to it.

"No, I am not tired," she told him, "but I hate to think that CaptainHewes must go."

"I'd give the world to be going with him."

Her hands were clasped tightly. "Would you give me up?"

"You? I should never have to give you up, thank God. You would neverhold me back."

"Shouldn't I, Derry?"

"My precious, don't I know? Better than you know yourself."

Drusilla and the Captain were standing by the wide window which lookedout over the city. The snow came down like a curtain, shutting out thesky.

"Do you think she loves him?" Jean asked.

"I hope so," heartily.

"But to send him away so—easily. Oh, Derry, she can't care."

"She is sending him not easily, but bravely. Margaret let her husbandgo like that."

"Would you want me to let you go like that, Derry?"

"Yes, dear."

"Wouldn't you want me to—cry?"

"Perhaps. Just a little tear. But I should want you to think beyondthe tears. I should want you to know that for us there can be no realseparation. You are mine to the end of all eternity, Jean."

He believed it. And she believed it. And perhaps, after all, it wastrue. There must be a very separate and special Heaven for those wholove once, and never love again.

Drusilla came away from the window to sing for them—a popular song.But there was much in it to intrigue the imagination—a vision of theheroic Maid—a hint of the Marseillaise—and so the nations weresinging it—.

"Jeanne d'Arc, Jeanne d'Arc,
Oh, soldats! entendez vous?
'Allons, enfants de la patrie,'
Jeanne d'Arc, la victoire est pour vous—"

There was a new note in Drusilla's voice. A note of tears as well asof triumph—and at the last word she broke down and covered her facewith her hands.

In the sudden stillness, the Captain strode across the room and tookher hands away from her face.

"Drusilla," he said before them all, "do you care as much as that?"

She told him the truth in her fine, frank fashion.

"Yes," she said, "I do care, Captain, but I want you to go."

"And oh, Derry, I am so glad she cried," Jean said, when they weredriving home through the snow-storm. "It made her seem so—human."

Derry drew her close. "Such a thing couldn't have happened," he said,"at any other time. Do you suppose that a few years ago any of uswould have been keyed up to a point where a self-contained Englishmancould have asked a girl, in the face of three other people, if sheloved him, and have had her answer like that? It was beautiful,beautiful, Jean-Joan—"

She held her breath. "Why do you call me that?"

"She lived for France. You shall live for France—and me."

The snow shut them in. There was the warmth of the car, of the furrugs and Derry's fur coat, Jean's own velvet wrap of heavenly blue, thefragrance of her violets. Somewhere far away men were fighting—therewas the mud and cold of the trenches—somewhere men were suffering.

She tried not to think of them. Her cheek was against Derry's. Shewas safe—safe.

Captain Hewes went away that night Drusilla's accepted lover. He put aring on her finger and kissed her "good-bye," and with his head highfaced the months that he must be separated from her.

"I will come back, dear woman."

"I shall see you before that," she told him. "I am coming over."

"I shall hate to have you in it all. But it will be Heaven to see you."

When he had gone, Drusilla went into Marion Gray's study.

Marion looked up from her work. She was correcting manuscript, pagesand pages of it. "Well, do you want me to congratulate you, Drusilla?"

Drusilla sat down. "I don't know, Marion. He is the biggest andfinest man I have ever met, but—"

"But what?"

"I wanted love to come to me differently, as it has come to Jean andDerry—without any doubts. I wanted to be sure. And I am not sure. Ionly know that I couldn't let him go without making him happy."

"Then is it—pity?"

"No. He means more to me than that. But I gave way to an impulse—themusic, and his sad eyes. And then I cried, and he came up to me—fancya man coming up before you all like that—"

"It was quite the most dramatic moment," said the lady who wrote."Quite unbelievable in real life. One finds those things occasionallyin fiction."

"It was as if there were just two of us alone in the world," Drusillaconfessed, "and I said what I did because I simply couldn't help it.And it was true at the moment; I think it is always going to be true.If I marry him I shall care a great deal. But it has not come to mejust as I had—dreamed."

"Nothing is like our dreams," said Marion, and dropped her pen."That's why I write. I can give my heroine all the bliss for which sheyearns."

Drusilla stood up. "You mustn't misunderstand me, Marion. I am veryhappy in the thought of my good friend, of my great lover. It is onlythat it hasn't quite measured up to what I expected."

"Nothing measures up to what we expect."

"And now Jean belongs to Derry, and I belong to my gallant and goodCaptain. I shall thank God before I sleep tonight, Marion."

"And he'll thank God—."

They kissed each other, and Drusilla went to bed, and the next morningshe wrote a letter to her Captain, which he carried next to his heartand kissed when he got a chance.

CHAPTER XVII

THE WHITE CAT

Derry, going quietly to his room that night, did not stop at theGeneral's door. He did not want to speak to Hilda, he did not want tospeak to anyone, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts of Jean andthat perfect ride with her through the snow.

He was, therefore, a little impatient to find Bronson waiting up forhim.

"I thought I told you to go to bed, Bronson."

"You did, sir, but—but I have something to tell you."

"Can't it wait until morning?"

"I should like to say it now, Mr. Derry." The old man's eyes wereanxious. "It's about your father—"

"Father?"

"Yes. I told you I didn't like the nurse."

"Miss Merritt? Well?"

"Perhaps I'd better get you to bed, sir. It's a rather long story, andyou'd be more comfortable."

"You'd be more comfortable, you mean, Bronson." The impatient note hadgone out of Derry's voice. Temporarily he pigeon-holed his thoughts ofJean, and gave his attention to this servant who was more than aservant, more even than a friend. To Derry, Bronson wore a sort ofhalo, like a good old saint in an ancient woodcut.

Propped up at last among his pillows, pink from his bath and in paleblue pajamas, Derry listened to what the old man had to say to him.

Bronson sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair with Muffin at hisknees. "From the first day I had a feeling that she wasn'tjust—straight. I don't know why, but I felt it. She had one way withthe General and another with us servants. But I didn't mind that, notmuch, until she went into your mother's room."

"My mother's room?" sharply. "What was she doing there, Bronson?"

"That's what I am going to tell you, sir. You know that place on thethird floor landing, where I sits and looks through at your father whenhe ain't quite himself, and won't let me come in his room? Well, therewas one night that I was there and watched her—"

Derry's quick frown rebuked him. "You shouldn't have done that,Bronson."

"I had a feeling, sir, that things were going wrong, and that theGeneral wasn't always himself. I shouldn't ever have said a thing toyou, Mr. Derry," earnestly, "if I hadn't seen what I did."

He cleared his throat. "That first night I saw her open the doorbetween your father's room and the sitting room, and she did it carefuland quiet like a person does when they don't want anybody to know. Thesitting room was dark, but I went down and stood behind the curtain inthe General's door, and I could see through, and there was a light inyour mother's room and a screen set before it."

"I took a big chance, but I slid into the sitting room, and I could seeher on the other side of the screen, and she had opened the safe behindthe Chinese scroll, and she was trying on your mother's diamonds."

"What!"

Bronson nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir, she had 'em on her head and herneck and her fingers—."

"You don't mean—that she took anything."

"Oh, no, sir, she's no common thief. But she looked at herself in theglass and strutted up and down, up and down, up and down, bowing andsmiling like a—fool."

"Then the telephone rang, and I had to get out pretty quick, before shecame to answer it. I went to bed, but I didn't sleep much, and thenext night I watched her again. I watch every night."

Derry considered the situation. "I don't like it at all, Bronson. Butperhaps it was just a woman's vanity. She wanted to see how shelooked."

"Well, she's seen—and she ain't going to be satisfied with that.She'll want to wear them all the time—"

"Of course, she can't, Bronson. She isn't as silly as to think shecan."

"Perhaps not, sir." Bronson opened his lips and shut them again.

"There's something else, sir," he said, after a pause. "I've found outthat she's giving the General things to drink."

"Hilda?" Derry said, incredulously. "Oh, surely not, Bronson, TheDoctor has given her strict orders—."

"She's got a bottle behind the books, and she pours him a glass rightafter dinner, and another before he goes to sleep, and—and—you knowhe'd sell his soul for the stuff, Mr. Derry."

Derry did know. It had been the shame of all his youthful years thathis father should stoop to subterfuge, to falsehood, to everything thatwas foreign to his native sense of honor and honesty, for a taste ofthat which his abnormal appetite demanded.

"If anyone had told me but you, Bronson, I wouldn't have believed it."

"I didn't want to tell you, but I had to. You can see that, can't you,sir?"

"Yes. But how in the world did she know where the diamonds were?"

"He gave her his key one day when I was there—made me get it off hisring. He sent her for your picture—the one that your mother used towear. I thought then that he wasn't quite right in his head, with thefever and all, or he would have sent me. But a woman like that—"

"Dr. McKenzie has the greatest confidence in her."

"I know, sir, and she's probably played square with him—but she ain'tplaying square here."

"It can't go on, of course. I shall have to tell McKenzie."

Bronson protested nervously. "If she puts her word against mine, whobut you will believe me? I'd rather you saw it yourself, Mr. Derry,and left my name out of it."

"But I can't sit on the steps and watch."

"No, sir, but you can come in unexpected from the outside—when I flashon the third floor light for you."

Derry slept little that night. Ahead of him stretched twenty-fourhours of suspense—twenty-four hours in which he would have to think ofthis thing which was hidden in the big house in which his mother hadreigned.

In the weeks since he had met Jean, he had managed to thrust it intothe back of his mind—he had, indeed, in the midst of his happiness,forgotten his bitterness, his sense of injustice—he wondered if he hadnot in a sense forgotten his patriotism. Life had seemed so good, hismoments with Jean so transcendent—there had been no room for anythingelse.

But now he was to take up again the burden which he had dropped. Hewas to consider his problem from a new angle. How could he bring Jeanhere? How could he let her clear young eyes rest on that which he andhis mother had seen? How could he set, as it were, all of thissordidness against her sweetness? Money could, of course, do much.But his promise held him to watchfulness, to brooding care, toresidence beneath this roof. His bride would be the General'sdaughter, she would live in the General's house, she would live, too,beneath the shadow of the General's tragic fault.

Yet—she was a brave little thing. He comforted himself with that.And she loved him. He slept at last with a desperate prayer on hislips that some new vision might be granted him on the morrow.

But the first news that came over the telephone was of Jean's flitting."Daddy wants me to go with him to our old place in Maryland. He hassome business which takes him there, and we shall be gone two days."

"Two days?"

"Yes. We are to motor up."

"Can't I go with you?"

"I think—Daddy wants me to himself. You won't mind, Derry—some dayyou'll have me all the time."

"But I need you now, dearest."

"Do you really," delightedly. "It doesn't seem as if you could—"

"If you knew how much."

She could not know. He hung up the receiver. The day stretched outbefore him, blank.

But it passed, of course. And Hilda, having slept her allotted numberof hours, was up in time to superintend the serving of the General'sdinner. Later, Derry stopped at the door to say that he was going tothe theater and might be called there. The General, propped againsthis pillows and clothed in a gorgeous mandarin coat, looked wrinkledand old. The ruddiness had faded from his cheeks, and he was muchthinner.

Hilda, sitting by the little table, showed all the contrast of youthand bloom. Her long hands lay flat on the table. Derry had afantastic feeling, as if a white cat watched him under the lamp.

"Are you going alone, son?" the General asked.

"Yes."

"Why don't you take a girl?" craftily.

Derry smiled.

"The only girl I should care to take is out of town."

The white cat purred. "Lucky girl to be the only one."

Derry's manner stiffened. "You are good to think so."

After Derry had gone, Hilda said, "You see, it is Jean McKenzie. TheDoctor said that he and Jean would be up in Maryland for a day or two.She has a good time. She doesn't know what it means to be poor, not asI know it. She doesn't know what it means to go without the prettythings that women long for. You wouldn't believe it, General, but whenI was a little girl, I used to stand in front of shop windows andwonder if other girls really wore the slippers and fans and parasols.And when I went to Dr. McKenzie's, and saw Jean in her silk dressinggowns, and her pink slippers and her lace caps, she seemed to me like alady in a play. I've worn my uniforms since I took my nurse'straining, and before that I wore the uniform of an Orphans' Home. I—Idon't know why I am telling you all this—only it doesn't seem quitefair, does it?"

He had all of an old man's sympathy for a lovely woman in distress. Hehad all of any man's desire to play Cophetua.

"Look here," he said. "You get yourself a pink parasol and a fan and asilk dress. I'd like to see you wear them."

She shook her head. "What should I do with things like that?" Hervoice had a note of wistfulness. "A woman in my position must becareful."

"But I want you to have the things," he persisted.

"I shouldn't have a place to wear them," sadly. "No, you are very goodto offer them. But I mustn't."

The General slept after that. Hilda read under the lamp—a white catwatched by a little old terrier on the stairs!

And now the big house was very still. There were lights in the hallsof the first and second floors. Bronson crouching in the darkness ofthe third landing was glad of the company of the painted lady on thestairs. He knew she would approve of what he was doing. For years hehad served her in such matters as this, saving her husband fromhimself. When Derry was too small, too ignorant of evil, too innocent,to be told things, it was to the old servant that she had come.

He remembered a certain night. She was young then and new to her task.She and the General had been dining at one of the Legations. She wasin pale blue and very appealing. When Bronson had opened the door, shehad come in alone.

"Oh, the General, the General, Bronson," she had said. "We've got togo after him."

She was shaking with the dread of it, and Bronson had said, "Hadn't youbetter wait, ma'am?"

"I mustn't. We stopped at the hotel as we came by, and he said hewould run in and get a New York paper. And we waited, and we waited,and he didn't come out again, and at last I sent McChesney in, and hecouldn't find him. And then I went and sat in the corridor, thinkinghe might pass through. It isn't pleasant to sit alone in the corridorwith the men—staring at you—at night. And then I asked the man atthe door if he had seen him, and he said, 'yes,' that he had called acab, and then I came home."

They had gone out again together, with Bronson, who was young andstrong, taking the place of the coachman, McChesney, because Mrs. Drakedid not care to have the other servants see her husband at times likethese. "You know how good he is," had been her timid claim on him fromthe first, "and you know how hard he tries." And because Bronson knew,and because he had helped her like the faithful squire that he was, shehad trusted him more and more with this important but secret business.

She had changed her dress for something dark, and she had worn a plaindark hat and coat. She had not cried a tear and she would not cry.She had been very brave as they travelled a beaten path, visiting theplaces which the General frequented, going on and on until they came tothe country, and to a farm-house where they found him turning nightinto day, having roused the amazed inmates to ask for breakfast.

He had paid them well for it, and was ready to set forth again with thedawn when his wife drove in.

"My dear," he had said, courteously, as his little wife's face peeredout at him from the carriage, "you shouldn't have come."

Sobered for the moment, he had made a handsome figure, as he stood withuncovered head, his dark hair in a thick curl between his eyes. Themorning was warm and he carried his overcoat on his arm. His patentleather shoes and the broadcloth of his evening clothes showed the dustand soil of his walk through the fields. He had evidently dismissedhis cab at the edge of the city and had come crosscountry.

His wife had reached out her little hand to him. "I came because I waslonely. The house seems so big when you are—away—"

It had wrung Bronson's heart to see her smiling. Yet she had alwaysmet the General with a smile and with the reminder of her need of him.There had been never a complaint, never a rebuke—at these moments.When he was himself, she strove with him against his devils. But tostrive when he was not himself, would be to send him away from her.

Her hands were clasped tightly, and her voice shook as she talked onthe way back to the husband who seemed so unworthy of the love she gave.

Yet she had not thought him unworthy. "If I can only save him," shehad said so many times. "Oh, Bronson, I mustn't let him go down anddown, with no one who loves him to hold him back."

In the years that had followed, Bronson had seen her grow worn andweary, but never hopeless. He had seen her hair grow gray, he had seenthe light go out of her face so that she no longer smiled as she hadsmiled in the picture.

But she had never given up the fight. Not even at the last moment."You will stay with him, Bronson, and help Derry."

And now this other woman had come to undo all the work that his belovedmistress had done. And there in the shadowed room she was weaving herspells.

Outside, snug against the deadly cold in his warm closed car, Derrywaited alone for Bronson's signal.

There was movement at last in the shadowed room. The General spokefrom the bed. Hilda answered him, and rose. She arranged a littletray with two glasses and a plate of biscuits. Then she crossed theroom towards the bookcase.

Bronson reached up his hand and touched the button which controlled thelights on the third floor. He saw Hilda raise a startled head as thefaint click reached her. She listened for a moment, and he withdrewhimself stealthily up and out of sight. If she came into the hall shemight see him on the stairs. He had done what he could. He wouldleave the rest to Derry.

"What's the matter?" the General asked.

"I thought I heard a sound—but there's no one up. This is our hour,isn't it?"

She brought the bottle out from behind the books. Then she came andstood by the side of the bed.

"Will you drink to my happiness, General?"

She was very handsome. "To our happiness," he said, eagerly, andunexpectedly, as he took the glass.

Hilda, pouring out more wine for herself, stood suddenly transfixed.Derry spoke from the threshold. "Dr. McKenzie has asked you repeatedlynot to give my father wine, Miss Merritt."

He was breathing quickly. His hat was in his hand and he wore his furcoat. "Why are you giving it to him against the Doctor's orders?"

The General interposed. "Don't take that tone with Miss Merritt,Derry. I asked her to get it for me, and she obeyed my orders. What'sthe matter with that?"

"Dr. McKenzie said, explicitly, that you were not to have it."

"Dr. McKenzie has nothing to do with it. You may tell him that for me,I am not his patient any longer."

"Father—"

"Certainly not. Do you think I am going to take orders fromMcKenzie—or from you?"

"But, Miss Merritt is his nurse, under his orders."

"She is not going to be his nurse hereafter. I have other plans forher."

Derry stood staring, uncomprehending. "Other plans—"

"I have asked her to be my wife."

Oh, lovely painted lady on the stairs, has it come to this? Have yourprayers availed no more than this? Have the years in which yousacrificed yourself, in which you sacrificed your son, counted no morethan this?

Derry felt faint and sick. "You can't mean it, Dad."

"I do mean it. I—am a lonely man, Derry. A disappointed man. Mywife is dead. My son is a slacker—"

It was only the maudlin drivel of a man not responsible for what he wassaying. But Derry had had enough. He took a step forward and stood atthe foot of the bed. "I wouldn't go any farther if I were you, Dad.I've not been a slacker. I have never been a slacker. I am not acoward. I have never been a coward. I am going to tell you right nowwhy I am not in France. Do you think I should have stayed out of itfor a moment if it hadn't been for you? Has it ever crossed your mindthat if you had been half a man I might have acted like a whole one?Have you ever looked back at the years and seen me going out into thenight to follow you and bring you back? I am not whining. I lovedyou, and I wanted to do it; but it wasn't easy. And I should still bedoing it; but of late you've said things that I can't forgive. I'vestood by you because I gave a promise to my mother—that I wouldn'tleave you. And I've stayed. But now I shan't try any more. I amgoing to France. I am going to fight. I am not your son, sir. I amthe son of my mother."

Then the General said what he would never have said if he had beenhimself.

"If you are not my son, then, by God, you shan't have any of my money."

"I don't want it. Do you think that I do? I shall get out of heretonight, and I shan't come back. There is only one thing that I wantbesides my own personal traps—and that is my mother's picture on thestairs."

The General was drawing labored breaths. "Your mother's picture—?"

"Yes, it has no place here. Do you think for as instant that you canmeet her eyes?"

There was a look of fright on the drawn old face. "I am not well, giveme the wine."

Derry reached for the bottle. "He shall not have it."

Hilda came up to him swiftly. "Can't you see? He must. Look at him."

Derry looked and surrendered. Then covered his face with his hands.

All that night, Derry, trying to pack, with Bronson in agitatedattendance, was conscious of the sinister presence of Hilda in thehouse. There was the opening and shutting of doors, her low orders inthe halls, her careful voice at the telephone, and once the sound ofher padded steps as she passed Derry's room on her way to her own. Thenew doctor came and went. Hilda sent, at Derry's request, a bulletinof the patient's condition. The General must be kept from excitement;otherwise there was not reason for alarm.

But Derry was conscious, as the night wore on, and Bronson left him,and he sat alone, of more than the physical evidences of Hilda'spresence; he was aware of the spiritual effect of her sojourn amongthem. She had stolen from them all something that was fine andbeautiful. From Derry his faith in his father. From the General hisconstancy to his lovely wife. The structure of ideals which Derry'smother had so carefully reared for the old house had been wrecked byone who had first climbed the stairs in the garb of a sister of mercy.

He saw his father's future. Hilda, cold as ice, setting his authorityaside. He saw the big house, the painted lady smiling no more on thestairs. Hilda's strange friends filling the rooms, the General's menfriends looking at them askance, his mother's friends staying away.

Poor old Dad, poor old Dad. All personal feeling was swept away in thethought of what might come to his father. Yet none the less his ownpath lay straight and clear before him. The time had come for him togo.

BOOK TWO

Through the Crack

"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" the Tin Soldier criedas loud as he could, and he threw himself from the shelf.…

What could have become of him? The old man looked, and the little boylooked. "I shall find him," the old man said, but he did not find him.For the Tin Soldier had fallen through a crack in the floor, and therehe lay as in an open grave.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BROAD HIGHWAY

The Doctor's house in Maryland was near Woodstock, and from the rise ofthe hill where it stood one could see the buildings of the old JesuitCollege, and the river which came so soon to the Bay.

In his boyhood the priests had been great friends of Bruce McKenzie.While of a different faith, he had listened eagerly to the things theyhad to tell him, these wise men, the pioneers of missionary work inmany lands, teachers and scholars. His imagination had been fired bytheir tales of devotion, and he had many arguments with his Covenantergrandfather, to whom the gold cross on the top of the college had beenthe sign and symbol of papacy.

"But, grandfather, the things we believe aren't so very different, andI like to pray in their chapel."

"Why not pray in your own kirk?"

"It's so bare."

"There's nothing to distract your thoughts."

"And I like the singing, and the lights and the candles—"

"We need no candles; we have light enough in our souls."

But Bruce had loved the smell of the incense, and the purple and red ofthe robes, and, seeing it all through the golden haze of the lights,his sense of beauty had been satisfied, as it was not satisfied in hisown plain house of worship.

Yet it had been characteristic of the boy as it was of the man thatneither kirk nor chapel held him, and he had gone through life likingeach a little, but neither overmuch.

Something of this he tried to express to Jean as, arriving at Woodstockin the early afternoon, they passed the College. "I might have been apriest," he said, "if I hadn't been too much of a Puritan or a Pagan.I am not sure which held me back—"

Jean shuddered. "How can people shut themselves away from the world?"

"They have a world of their own, my dear," said the Doctor,thoughtfully, "and I'm not sure that it isn't as interesting as ourown."

"But there isn't love in it," said Jean.

"There's love that carries them above self—and that's something."

"It is something, but it isn't much," said his small daughter,obstinately. "I don't want to love the world, Daddy. I want to loveDerry—"

The Doctor groaned. "I thought I had escaped him, for a day."

"You will never escape him," was the merciless rejoinder, but shekissed him to make up for it.

In spite of the fact of her separation for the moment from her lover,she had enjoyed the ride. There had been much wind, and a little snowon the way. But now the air was clear, with a sort of silverclearness—the frozen river was gray-green between its banks, therewere blue shadows flung by the bare trees. As they passed the College,a few black-frocked fathers and scholastics paced the gardens.

Jean wished that Derry were there to see it all. It was to her a placeof many memories. Most of the summers of her little girlhood had beenspent there, with now and then a Christmas holiday.

The house did not boast a heating plant, but there were roaring openfires in all the rooms, except in the Connollys' sitting room, whichwas warmed by a great black stove.

The Connollys were the caretakers. They occupied the left wing of thehouse, and worked the farm. They were both good Catholics, and Mrs.Connolly looked after the little church at the crossroads corner, wherethe good priests came from the College every week to say Mass. She wasa faithful, hard-working, pious soul, with her mind just now very muchon her two sons who had enlisted at the first call for men, and werenow in France.

She talked much about them to Jean, who came into the kitchen to watchher get supper. The deep, dark, low-ceiled room was lighted by an oillamp. The rocking chair in which Jean sat had a turkey-red cushion,and there was another turkey-red cushion in the rocking chair on theother side of the cookstove. They ate their meals on the table underthe lamp. It was only when guests were in the house that the diningroom was opened.

The Doctor and Jim Connolly were at the barn, where were kept two fatmules, a fat little horse, a fat little cow, and a pair of fat pigs.There were also a fat house dog, and a brace of plump puss*es, for theConnollys were a plump and comfortable couple who wanted everythingabout them comfortable, and who had had little to worry them until thecoming of the war.

Yet even the war could not shake Mrs. Connolly's faith in the rightnessof things.

"I was glad to have our country get into it, and to have my sons go.If they had stayed at home, I shouldn't have felt satisfied."

"Didn't it nearly break your heart?"

Mrs. Connolly, beating eggs for an omelette, shook her head. "Women'shearts don't break over brave men, Miss Jean. It is the sons who areweak and wayward who break their mothers' hearts—not the ones that goto war."

She poured the omelette into a pan. "When I have a bad time missingthem, I remember how the Mother of God gave her blessed Son to theworld. And He set the example, to give ourselves to save others. No,I don't want my boys back until the war is over."

Jean said nothing. She rocked back and forth and thought about whatMary Connolly had said. One of the fat puss*es jumped on her lap andpurred. It was all very peaceful, all as it had been since some othercook made omelettes for the little aristocrat of an Irish grandmotherwho would not under any circ*mstances have sat in the kitchen on termsof familiarity with a dependent. The world had progressed much indemocracy since those days. Those who had fought in this part of thecountry for liberty and equality had not really known it. They hadseen the Vision, but it was to be given to their descendants to realizeit.

Jean rocked and rocked. "I hate war," she said, suddenly. "I didn'tuntil Daddy said he was going, and then it seemed to come—so near—allthe time I am trying to push the thought of it away. I wouldn't tellhim, of course. But I don't want him to go."

"No, I wouldn't tell him. We women may be scared to death, but itain't the time to tell our men that we are scared."

"Are you scared to death, Mrs. Connolly?"

The steady eyes met hers. "Sometimes, in the night, when I think ofthe wet and cold, and the wounded groaning under the stars. But whenthe morning comes, I cook the breakfast and get Jim off, and he don'tknow but that I am as cheerful as one of our old hens, and then I goover to the church, and tell it all to the blessed Virgin, and I amready to write to my boys of how proud I am, and how fine they are—andof every little tiny thing that has happened on the farm."

Thus the heroic Mary Connolly—type of a million of her kind inAmerica—of more than a million of her kind throughout theworld—hiding her fears deep in her heart that her men might go cheeredto battle.

The omelette was finished, and the Doctor and Jim Connolly had come in."The stars are out," the Doctor said. "After supper we'll walk a bit."

Jean was never to forget that walk with her father. It was her lastlong walk with him before he went to France, her last intimate talk.It was very cold, and he took her arm, the snow crunched under theirfeet.

Faintly the chimes of the old College came up to them. "Nine o'clock,"said the Doctor. "Think of all the years I've heard the chimes, I havelived over half a century—and my father before me heard them—and theyrang in my grandfather's time. Perhaps they will ring in the ears ofmy grandchildren, Jean."

They had stopped to listen, but now they went on. "Do you know whatthey used to say to me when I was a little boy?

'The Lord watch
Between thee and—me—'"

"My mother and I used to repeat it together at nine o'clock, and when Ibrought your mother here for our honeymoon—that first night we, too,stood and listened to the chimes—and I told her what they said.

"Men drift away from these things," he continued, with something of aneffort. "I have drifted too far. But, Jean, will you always rememberthis, that when I am at my best, I come back to the things my mothertaught her boy? If anything should happen, you will remember?"

[Illustration: "If anything should happen, you will remember?"]

She clung to his arm. She had no words. Never again was she to hearthe chimes without that poignant memory of her father begging her toremember the best—.

"I have been thinking," he said, out of a long silence, "of you andDerry. I—I want you to marry him, dear, before I go."

"Before you go—Daddy—"

"Yes. Emily says I have no right to stand in the way of yourhappiness. And I have no right. And some day, perhaps, oh, my littleJean, my grandchildren may hear the chimes—"

White and still, she stood with her face upturned to the stars. "Lifeis so wonderful, Daddy."

And this time she said it out of a woman's knowledge of what life wasto mean.

They went in, to find that the Connollys had retired. Jean slept in agreat feather-bed. And all the night the chimes in the College towerstruck the hours—

In the morning, Jean went over to the church with Mrs. Connolly. Itwas Saturday, and things must be made ready for the services the nextday. Jean had been taught as a child to kneel reverently while Mrs.Connolly prayed. To sit quietly in a pew while her good friend did thelittle offices of the altar.

Jean had always loved to sit there, to wonder about the rows of candlesand the crucifix, to wonder about the Sacred Heart, and St. Agnes withthe lamb, and St. Anthony who found things when you lost them, and St.Francis in the brown frock with the rope about his waist, and why Mrs.Connolly never touched any of the sacred vessels with bare hands.

But most of all she had wondered about that benignant figure in thepale blue garments who stood in a niche, with a light burning at herfeet, and with a baby in her arms.

Mary—

Faintly as she gazed upon it on this winter morning, Jean began toperceive the meaning of that figure. Of late many women had said toher, "Was my son born for this, to be torn from my arms—to bebutchered?"

Well, Mary's son had been torn from her arms—butchered—her little sonwho had lain in a manger and whom she had loved as much as anyless-worshipped mother,—and he had told the world what he thought ofsin and injustice and cruelty, and the world had hated him because hehad set himself against these things—and they had killed him, and fromhis death had come the regeneration of mankind.

And now, other men, following him, were setting themselves againstinjustice and cruelty, and they were being killed for it. But perhapstheir sacrifices, too, would be for the salvation of the world. Oh, ifonly it might be for the world's salvation!

She walked quite soberly beside Mrs. Connolly back to the house. Shetook her knitting to the kitchen. Mrs. Connolly was knitting socks."I don't mind the fighting as much as I do the chance of their takingcold. And I'm afraid they won't have the sense to change their sockswhen they are wet. I have sent them pairs and pairs—but they'll neverknow enough to change—

"It is funny how a mother worries about a thing like that," shecontinued. "I suppose it is because you've always worried about theirtaking cold, and you've never had to worry much about their beingkilled. I always used to put them to bed with hot drinks and hotbaths, and a lot of blankets, and I keep thinking that there won't beanybody to put them to bed."

Jean knitted a long row, and then she spoke. "Mrs. Connolly, I'm goingto be married, before Daddy leaves for France."

"I am happy to hear that, my dear."

"I didn't know it until last night—Daddy wasn't willing. I—I feel asif it couldn't be really true—that I am going to be married, Mrs.Connolly."

There was a tremble of her lip and clasping of her little hands.

Mary Connolly laid down her work. "I guess you miss your mother,blessed lamb. I remember when she was married. I was young, too, butI felt a lot older with my two babies, and Jim and I were so glad theDoctor had found a wife. He needed one, if ever a man did—for heliked his gay good time."

"Daddy?" said Jean, incredulously. It is hard for youth to visualizethe adolescence of its elders. Dr. McKenzie's daughter beheld in himnone of the elements of a Lothario. He was beyond the pale of romance!He was fifty, which settled at once all matters of sentiment!

"Indeed, he was gay, my dear, and he had broken half the hearts in thecounty, and then your mother came for a visit. She didn't look in theleast like you, except that she was small and slender. Her hair wasdark and her eyes. You have your father's eyes and hair.

"But she was so pretty and so loving—and you never saw such ahoneymoon. They were married in the spring, and the orchards were inbloom, and your father filled her room with apple blossoms, and thefirst day when Jim drove them up from the station, your father carriedher in his arms over the threshold and up into that room, and when shecame down, she said, 'Mary Connolly, isn't life—wonderful?'"

"Did she say that, Mrs. Connolly, really? Daddy always teases me whenI go into raptures. He says that I think everything is wonderful froma sunset to a chocolate soda."

"Well, she did, too. Her husband was the most wonderful man, and herbaby was the most wonderful baby—and her house was the most wonderfulhouse. You make me think of her in every way. But you won't haveapple blossoms for your honeymoon, my dear."

"No. But, oh, Mrs. Connolly—it won't make any real difference."

"Not a bit. And if you'll come up here, Jim and I will promise not tobe in the way. Your mother said we were never in the way. And I'llserve your meals in front of the sitting-room fire. They used to havetheirs out of doors. But you'll be just as much alone, with me and Jimeating in the kitchen."

It was very easy after that to tell Mrs. Connolly all about it. AboutDerry, and how he had fallen in love with her when he had thought shewas just the girl in the Toy Shop. But there were things which she didnot tell, of the shabby old gentleman and of the shadow which haddarkened Derry's life.

Then when she had finished, Mary Connolly asked the thing whicheverybody asked—"Why isn't he fighting?"

Jean flushed. "He—he made a promise to his mother."

"I'd never make my boys promise a thing like that. And if I did, I'dhope they'd break it."

"Break it?" tensely.

"Of course. Their honor's bigger than anything I could ever ask them.And they know it."

"Then you think that Derry ought to break his promise?"

"I do, indeed, my dear."

"But—. Oh, Mrs. Connolly, I don't know whether I want him to breakit."

"Why not?"

With her face hidden. "I don't know whether I could let him—go."

"You'd let him go. Never fear. When the moment came, the good Lordwould give you strength—"

There were steps outside. Jean leaned over and kissed Mary Connolly onthe cheek. "You are such a darling—I don't wonder that my motherloved you."

"Well, you'll always be more than just yourself to me," said Mary."You'll always be your mother's baby. And after I get lunch for youand the men I am going back to the church and ask the blessed Virgin tointercede for your happiness."

So it was while Mary was at church, and the two men had gone to townupon some legal matter, that Jean, left alone, wandered through thehouse, and always before her flitted the happy ghost of the girl whohad come there to spend her honeymoon. In the great south chamber wasa picture of her mother, and one of her father as they looked at thetime of their marriage. Her mother was in organdie with great balloonsleeves, and her hair in a Psyche knot. She was a slender littlething, and the young doctor's picture was a great contrast in itsblondness and bigness. Daddy had worn a beard then, pointed, as wasthe way with doctors of his day, and he looked very different, exceptfor the eyes which had the same teasing twinkle.

The window of this room looked out over the orchard, the orchard whichhad been bursting with bloom when the bride came. The trees now wereslim little skeletons, with the faint gold of the western sky back ofthem, and there was much snow. Yet so vivid was Jean's impression ofwhat had been, that she would have sworn her nostrils were assailed bya delicate fragrance, that her eyes beheld wind-blown petals of whiteand pink.

The long mirror reflecting her showed her in her straight frock of darkblue serge, with the white collars and cuffs. The same mirror hadreflected her mother's organdie. It, too, had been blue, Mary had toldher, but blue with such a difference! A faint forget-me-not shade,with a satin girdle, and a stiff satin collar!

Two girls, with a quarter of a century between them. Yet the motherhad laughed and loved, and had looked forward to a long life with hergay big husband. They had had ten years of it, and then there had beenjust her ghost to haunt the old rooms.

Jean shivered a little as she went downstairs. She found herself alittle afraid of the lonely darkening house. She wished that Marywould come.

Curled up in one of the big chairs, she waited. Half-asleep andhalf-awake; she was aware of shadow-shapes which came and went. HerScotch great-grandfather, the little Irish great-grandmother; hercopper-headed grandfather, his English wife, her own mother, pale anddark-haired and of Huguenot strain, her own dear father.

From each of these something had been given her, some fault, somevirtue. If any of them had been brave, there must have been handeddown to her some bit of bravery—if any of them had been cowards—

But none of them had been cowards.

"We came to a new country," said the great-grandparents. "There werehardships, but we loved and lived through them—"

"The Civil war tore our hearts," said the grand-parents. "Brotherhated brother, and friend hated friend, but we loved and lived throughit—"

"We were not tested," said her own parents. "You are our child andtest has come to you. If you are brave, it will be because we havegiven to you that which came first to us—"

Jean sat up, wide-awake—"I am not brave," she said.

She stood, after that, at a lower window, watching. Far down the roada big black motor flew straight as a crow towards the hill on which theDoctor's house stood. It stopped at the gate. A man stepped out.Jean gave a gasp, then flew to meet him.

"Oh, Derry, Derry—"

He came in and shut the door behind him, took her in his arms, kissedher, and kissed her again. "I love you," he said, "I love you. Icouldn't stay away—"

It seemed to Jean quite the most wonderful thing of all the wonderfulthings that had happened, that he should be here in this old housewhere her parents had come for their honeymoon—where her own honeymoonwas so soon to be—.

She saved that news for him, however. He had to tell her first of howhe had taken the wrong road after he had left Baltimore. He had gonewithout his lunch to get to her quickly. No, he wasn't hungry, and hewas glad Mary Connolly was out, "I've so much to say to you."

Then, too, she delayed the telling so that he might see the farm beforedarkness fell. She wrapped herself in a hooded red cloak in which hethought her more than ever adorable.

The sun rested on the rim of the world, a golden disk under awind-blown sky. It was very cold, but she was warm in her red cloak,he in his fur-lined coat and cap.

She told him about her father's honeymoon, hugging her own secretclose. "They came here, Derry, and it was in May. I wish you couldsee the place in May, with all the appleblooms.

"It seems queer, doesn't it, Derry, to think of father honeymooning.He always seems to be making fun of things, and one should be seriouson a honeymoon."

She flashed a smile at him and he smiled back. "I shall be veryserious on mine."

"Of course. Derry, wouldn't you like a honeymoon here?"

"I should like it anywhere—with you—"

"Well," she drew a deep breath, "Daddy says we may—"

"We may what, Jean-Joan?"

"Get married—"

"Before he goes?"

"Yes."

She leaned forward to get the full effect of his surprise, to watch thedawn of his delight.

But something else dawned. Embarrassment? Out of a bewilderingsilence she heard him say, "I am not sure, dear, that it will be bestfor us to marry before he goes."

She had a stunned feeling that, quite unaccountably, Derry was failingher. A shamed feeling that she had offered herself and had beenrejected.

Something of this showed in her face. "My dear, my dear," he said,"let us go in. I can tell you better there."

Once more in the warm sitting room with the door shut behind them, helifted her bodily in his arms. "Don't you know I want it," hewhispered, tensely. "Tell me that you know—"

When he set her down, his own face showed the stress of his emotion."You are always to remember this," he said, "that no matter whathappens, I am yours, yours—always, till the end of time."

Instinctively she felt that this Derry was in some way different fromthe Derry she had left the day before. There was a hint ofmasterfulness, a touch of decision.

"Will you remember?" he repeated, hands tight on her shoulders.

"Yes," she said, simply.

He bent and kissed her. "Then nothing else will matter." He placed abig chair for her in front of the fire, and drew another up in front ofit. Bending forward, he took her hands. "I am glad I found you alone.What luck it was to find you alone!"

He tried then to tell her what he had come to tell. Yet, after allthere was much that he left unsaid. How could he speak to her of thethings he had seen in his father's shadowed house? How fill thatdelicate mind with a knowledge of that which seemed even to his greatersophistication unspeakable?

So she wondered over several matters. "How can he want to marry Hilda?I can't imagine any man wanting Hilda."

"She is handsome in a big fine way."

"But she is not big and fine. She is little and mean, but I couldnever make Daddy see it."

He wondered if McKenzie would see it now.

Mary Connolly, coming in through the back door to her warm kitchen,heard voices. Standing in the dark hall which connected the left wingwith the house, she could see through into the living room where Jeansat with her lover.

There was much dark wood and the worn red velvet—low bookshelveslining the walls, a grand piano on a cover by the window. In thedimness Jean's copper head shone like the halo of a saint. Marydecided that Derry was "queer-looking," until gathering courage, shewent in and was warmed by his smile.

"He hasn't had any lunch, Mary," Jean told her, "and he wouldn't let meget any for him."

"I'll have something in three whisks of a lamb's tail," said Mary withElizabethan picturesqueness, and away she went on her hospitablemission.

"Marrying just now," said Derry, picking up the subject, where he haddropped it, when Mary came in, "is out of the question."

"Did you think that I was marrying you for your money?"

"No. But two months' pay wouldn't buy a gown like this,"—he lifted afold with his forefinger—"to say nothing of your little shoes." Hedropped his light tone. "Oh, my dear, can't you see?"

"No. I can't see. Daddy would let us have this house, and I have alittle money of my own from my mother, and—and the Connollys wouldtake care of everything, and we should see the spring come, and thesummer."

He rose and went and stood with his back to the fire. "But I shan't behere in the spring and summer."

She clasped her hands nervously. "Derry, I don't want you to go."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I do. At least not yet. We can be married—and have just alittle, little month or two—and then I'll let you go—truly."

He shook his head. "I've stayed out of it long enough. You wouldn'twant me to stay out of it any longer, Jean-Joan."

"Yes, I should. Other men can go, but I want to keep you—it's badenough to give—Daddy—. I haven't anybody. Mary Connolly has herhusband, but I haven't anybody—" her voice broke—and broke again—.

He came over and knelt beside her. "Let me tell you something," hesaid. "Do you remember the night of the Witherspoon dinner? Well,that night you cut me dead because you thought I was a coward—and Ithanked God for the women who hated cowards."

"But you weren't a coward."

"I know, and so I could stand it—could stand your scorn and the scornof the world. But what if I stayed out of it now, Jean?

"What if I stayed out of it now? You and I could have our littlemoment of happiness, while other men fought that we might have it. Weshould be living in Paradise, while other men were in Hell. I can'tsee it, dearest. All these months I have been bound. But now, mydear, my dear, do you love me enough not to keep me, but to let me go?"

There was a beating pause. She lifted wet eyes. "Oh, Derry, darling,I love you enough—I love you—"

Thus, in a moment, little Jean McKenzie unlatched the gate which hadshut her into the safe and sunshiny garden of pampered girlhood andcame out upon the broad highway of life, where men and women suffer forthe sake of those who travel with them, sharing burdens and gainingstrength as they go.

Dimly, perhaps, she perceived what she had done, but it was not givento her to know the things she would encounter or the people she wouldmeet. All the world was to adventure with her, throughout the years,the poor distracted world, dealing death and destruction, yet dreamingever of still waters and green pastures.

CHAPTER XIX

HILDA SHAKES A TREE

When Dr. McKenzie and Jim Connolly arrived, Derry said apologeticallyas he shook hands with the Doctor, "You see, you can't get rid ofme—but I have such a lot of things to talk over with you."

It was after Jean had gone to bed, however, that they had their talk,and before that Derry and Jean had walked in the moonlight and hadlistened to the chimes.

There had, perhaps, never been such a moon. It hung in a sky thatshimmered from horizon to horizon. Against this shimmering backgroundthe college buildings were etched in black—there was a glint of goldas the light caught the icicles and made candles of them.

In the months to come that same moon was to sail over the cantonmentwhere Derry slept heavily after hard days. It was to sail over thetrenches of France, where, perhaps, he slept not at all, or sleptuneasily in the midst of mud and vermin. But always when he looked upat it, he was to see the Cross on the top of the College, and to hearthe chimes.

They talked that night of the things that were deep in their hearts.She wanted him to go—yes, she wanted him to go, but she was afraid.

"If something should happen to you, Derry."

"Sometimes I wonder," he said, in his grave, young voice, "why we areso—afraid. I think we have the wrong focus. We want life, even if itbrings unhappiness, even if it brings suffering, even if it bringsdisgrace. Anything seems better than to—die—"

"But to have things stop, Derry." She shuddered. "When there's somuch ahead."

"Perhaps they don't stop, dear."

"If I could only believe that—"

"Why not? Do you remember 'Sherwood,' where Blondin rides through theforest singing:

'"Death, what is death?" he cried,
"I must ride on—"'"

His face was lifted to the golden sky. She was never to forget thelook upon it. And with a great ache and throb of passionaterenunciation, she told herself that it was for this that the men of hergeneration had been born, that they might fight against the powers ofdarkness for the things of the spirit.

She lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. Of how she hadlaughed at other women, scolded, said awful things to them of how theircowardice was holding the world back. She had thought she understood,but she had not understood. It was giving your own—your own, whichwas the test. Oh, let those who had none of their own to give keepsilent.

With her breath almost stopping she thought of those glorious youngsouls riding on and on through infinite space, the banner of victoryfloating above them. No matter what might come to the world of defeator of disaster, these souls would never know it, they had giventhemselves in the cause of humanity—for them there would always be thesound of silver trumpets, the clash of cymbals, the song of triumph!

Downstairs, Dr. McKenzie was listening with a frowning face to whatDerry had to tell him.

"Do you mean to say that Hilda was giving him—wine?"

"Yes. Bronson told me. But he didn't want you to depend upon hisunsupported testimony. So we fixed up a scheme, and I stayed outsideuntil he flashed a light for me; and then I went in and caught her."

"It is incredible. Why should she do such a thing? She has alwaysbeen a perfect nurse—a perfect nurse, Drake." He rose and walked thefloor. "But deliberately to disobey my orders—what could have beenher object?"

Derry hesitated.

"I haven't told you the worst."

Doctor McKenzie stopped in front of him. "The worst?"

"Dad is going to marry her."

"What?"

Derry repeated what he had said.

The Doctor dropped into a chair. "Who told you?"

"Dad."

"And she admitted that it was—true?"

"Yes."

Derry gave the facts. "He wasn't himself, of course, but that doesn'tchange things for me."

The Doctor in the practice of his profession had learned to conceal hisemotions. He concealed now what he was feeling, but a close observermight have seen in the fading of the color in his cheeks, the beatingof his clenched fist on the arm of his chair, something of that whichwas stirring within him.

"And this has been going on ever since she went there. She has had itin mind to wear your mother's jewels—" Derry had graphically describedBronson's watch on the stairs—"to get your father's money. I knew shewas cold-blooded, but I had always thought it a rather admirablequality in a woman of her attractive type."

Before his eye came the vision of Hilda's attractiveness by hisfireside, at his table. And now she would sit by the General's fire,at his table.

"She didn't say a word," Derry's young voice went on, "when he told methat I was no longer—his son. I can't tell you how I felt about her.I've never felt that way about anyone before. I've always likedpeople—but it was as if some evil thing had swooped down on the oldhouse."

The lad saw straight! That was the thought which suddenly illuminedDr. McKenzie's troubled mind. Hilda was not beautiful. So beauty ofbody could offset the ugliness of her distorted soul.

"And so I am poor," Derry was saying, heavily, "and I must wait tomarry Jean."

The red surged up in the Doctor's face. He jerked himself forward inhis chair. "You shall not wait. After this you are my son, if you arenot your father's."

He laid his hand on Derry's shoulder. "I've money enough, God knows.And I shan't need it. It isn't a fortune, but it is enough to make allof us comfortable for the rest of our days—and I want Jean to behappy. Do you think I am going to let Hilda Merritt stand between mychild and happiness?"

"It's awfully good of you, sir," Derry's voice was husky with feeling,"but—"

"There are no 'buts.' You must let me have my own way; I shallconsider it a patriotic privilege to support one soldier and his littlewife."

He was riding above the situation splendidly. He even had visions ofstraightening things out. "When I go back I shall tell Hilda what Ithink of her, I shall tell her that it is preposterous—that herprofessional reputation is at stake."

"What will she care for her professional reputation when she is myfather's wife?"

The thought of Hilda with the world, in a sense, at her feet wasmaddening. The Doctor paced the floor roaring like an angry lion. "Itmay not do any good, but I've got to tell her what I think of her."

Derry had a whimsical sense of the meeting of the white cat and thisleonine gentleman—would she purr or scratch?

"The sooner you and Jean are married the better. If Hilda thinks sheis going to keep you and Jean apart she is mistaken."

"Oh—did she know of the engagement?"

"Yes," the Doctor confessed. "I told her the other day when she cameto fix the books."

"Then that accounts for it."

"For what?"

"Dad's attitude. I thought it was queer he should fly up all in amoment. She wanted to make trouble, Doctor, and she has made it."

Long after Derry had gone to bed, the Doctor sat there pondering onHilda's treachery. He was in some ways a simple man—swayed by theimpulse of the moment. The thought of deliberate plotting wasabhorrent. In his light way he had taken her lightly. He had laughedat her. He had teased Jean, he had teased Emily, calling theirintuition jealousy. Yet they had known better than he. And why shouldnot women know women better than men know them? Just as men know menin a way that women could never know. Sex erected barriers—there wasalways the instinct to charm, to don one's gayest plumage; even Hilda'sfrankness had been used as a lure; she knew he liked it. Would shehave been so frank if she had not felt its stimulus to a man of histype? And, after all, had she really been frank?

Such a woman was like a poisonous weed; and he had thought she mightbloom in the same garden with Jean—until Emily had told him.

He turned to the thought of Emily with relief. Thank God he couldleave Jean in her care. If Derry went, there would still be Emily withher sweet sanity, and her wise counsels.

He felt very old as he went upstairs. He stood for a long time infront of his wife's picture. How sweet she had been in herforget-me-not gown—how little and tender! Their love had burned in awhite flame—there would never be anything like that for him again.

He waked in the morning, however, ready for all that was before him.He was a man who dwelt little on the past. There was always the day'swork, and the work of the day after.

His appetite for the work of the coming day was, it must be confessed,whetted somewhat by the thought of what he would say to Hilda.

They had an early breakfast, with Jean between her father and Derry andeating nothing for very happiness.

There was the start in the opal light of the early morning, with afaint rose sky making a background for the cross on the College, andthe chimes saying "Seven o'clock."

Jim and Mary Connolly came out in the biting air to see them off. ThenMary went over to the church to pray for Jean and Derry. But first ofall she prayed for her sons.

The Doctor, arriving at his office, at once called up Hilda.

"I must see you as soon as possible."

"What has Derry Drake been telling you?"

"How do you know that he has told me anything?"

"By your voice. And you needn't think that you are going to scold me."

"I shall scold you for disobeying orders. I thought you were to betrusted, Hilda."

"I am not a saint. You know that. And I am not sure that I want youto come. I shall send you away if you scold."

She hung up the receiver and left him fuming. Her high-handedindifference to his authority sent him storming to Derry, "I've half amind to stay away."

"I think I would. It won't do any good to go—"

But the Doctor went. He still hoped, optimistically, that Hilda mightbe induced to see the error of her ways.

She received him in the blue room, where the General's preciousporcelain was set forth in cabinets. It was a choice little room whichhad been used by Mrs. Drake for the reception of special guests. Hildawas in her uniform, but without her cap. It was as if in doffing hercap, she struck her first note of independence against the Doctor'srule.

He began professionally. "Doctor Bryer telephoned this morning thathis attendance of the case had been only during my absence. That hedid not care to keep it unless I definitely intended to withdraw. Itold him to go ahead. I told him also that you were a good nurse. Ihad to whitewash my conscience a bit to say it, Hilda—"

Her head went up. "I am a good nurse. But I am more than a nurse, Iam a woman. Oh, I know you are blaming me for what you think I havedone. But if you stood under a tree and a great ripe peach hung justout of your reach, could you be blamed for shaking the tree? Well, Ishook the tree."

She was very handsome as she gave her defense with flashing eyes.

"The General asked me to marry him, and that's more than you would everhave done. You liked to think that I was half in love with you. Youliked to pretend that you were half in love with me. But would youever have offered me ease and rest from hard work? Would you ever havethought that I might some day be your daughter's equal in your home?Oh, I have wanted good times. I used to sit night after night alone inthe office while you and Jean went out and did the things I was dyingto do. I wanted to go to dances and to the theater and to supper witha gay crowd. But you never seemed to think of it. I am young and Iwant pretty clothes—yet you thought I was satisfied to have you comehome and say a few careless pleasant words, and to tease me a little.That was all you ever did for me—all you ever wanted.

"But the General wants more than that. He wants me here in the bighouse, to be his wife, and to meet his friends. He had a man come upthe other day with a lot of rings, and he bought me this." She showedthe great diamonds flashing on her third finger. "I have always wanteda ring like this, and now I can have as many as I want. Do you blameme for shaking the tree?"

He sat, listening, spellbound to her sophistry. But was it sophistry?Wasn't some of it true? He saw her for the first time as a womanwanting things like other women.

She swept out her hand to include the contents of the little room. "Ihave always longed for a place like this. I don't know a thing aboutchina. But I know that all that stuff in the cabinet cost a fortune.And it's a pretty room, and some day when I am the General's wife, I'llask you here to take tea with me, and I'll wear a silver gown like yourdaughter wears, and I think you'll be surprised to see that I can do itwell."

He flung up his hand. "I can't argue it, Hilda. I can't analyze it.But it is all wrong. In all the years that you worked for me, while Ilaughed at you, I respected you. But I don't respect you now."

She shrugged. "Do you think I care? And a man's respect after all israther a cold thing, isn't it? But I am sorry you feel as you do aboutit. I should have been glad to have you wish me happiness."

"Happiness—" His anger seemed to die suddenly. "You won't findhappiness, Hilda, if you separate a son from his father."

"Did he tell you that? I had nothing to do with it. His father wasangry at his—interference."

He stood up. "We won't discuss it. But you may tell him this. That Iam glad his son is poor, for my daughter will marry now the man and nothis money."

"Then he will marry her?"

"Yes. On Christmas Day."

She wished that she might tell him the date of her own wedding, but shedid not know it. The General seemed in no hurry. He had carefullyobserved the conventions; had hired a housekeeper and a maid, and therewas, of course, the day nurse. Having thus surrounded his betrothedwith a sort of feminine bodyguard, he spoke of the wedding as happeningin the spring. And he was hard to move. As has been said, the Generalhad once commanded a brigade. He was immensely entertained andfascinated by the lady who was to be his wife. But he was not to bemanaged by her. She found herself, as he grew stronger, quitestrangely deferring to his wishes. She found herself, indeed, ratherunexpectedly dominated.

She came back to the Doctor. "Aren't you going to wish me happiness?"

"No. How can I, Hilda?"

After he had left her, she stood very still in the middle of the room.She could still see him as he had towered above her—his crinkled hairwaving back from his handsome head. She had always liked the youth ofhim and his laughter and his boyish fun.

The rich man upstairs was—old—.

CHAPTER XX

THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN

And now the Tin Soldier was to go to the wars!

Derry, swinging downtown, found himself gazingsquarely into the eyes of the khaki-clad men whomhe met. He was one of them at last!

He was on his way to meet Jean. The day beforethey had gone to church together. They had heardburning words from a fearless pulpit. The old manwho had preached had set no limits on his patriotism.The cause of the Allies was the cause ofhumanity, the cause of humanity was the cause ofChrist. He would have had the marching hymnof the Americans "Onward, Christian Soldiers." HisMaster was not a shrinking idealist, but aprophet unafraid. "Woe unto thee, Chorazin!Woe unto thee, Bethsaida!… It shall be moretolerable for Tyre and Sidon in the day of Judgmentthan for you. And thou, Capernaum, which artexalted unto Heaven, shall be brought down tohell…"

"I am too old to go myself," the old man had said,"but I have sent my sons. In the face of theworld's need, no man has a right to hold anotherback. Personal considerations which might oncehave seemed sufficient must now be set aside.Things are at stake which involve not only thehonor of a nation but the honor of the individual.To call a man a coward in the old days was tochallenge his physical courage. To know him as aslacker in these modern times is to doubt thequality of his mind and spirit. 'I pray thee have meexcused' is the word of one lost to the highmeanings of justice—of love and loyalty and liberty—"

Stirring words. The lovers had thrilled to them.Derry's hand had gone out to Jean and her ownhand clasped it. Together they saw the vision ofhis going forth, a shining knight, girded for thebattle by a beloved woman—saw it through theglamour of high hopes and youthful ardor!

A troop of cavalry on the Avenue! Jackies insaucer caps, infantry, artillery, aviation! Blueand red and green cords about wide-brimmed hats.Husky young Westerners, slim young Southerners,square-chinned young Northerners—a greatbrotherhood, their faces set one way—and he was toshare their hardships, to be cold and hungry withthe best of them, wet and dirty with the worst. Itwould be a sort of glorified penance for his delay indoing the thing which too long he had left undone.

He was to have lunch with Jean in the Houserestaurant—he was a little early, and as heloitered through the Capitol grounds, in his ears therewas the echo of fairy trumpets—"trutter-a-trutt,trutter-a-trutt—"

The old Capitol had always been for Derry aplace of dreams. He loved every inch of it. Thesunset view of the city from the west front; thebronze doors on the east, the labyrinthine maze ofthe corridors; the tesselated floors, the mottledmarble of the balustrades; the hushed approach to theSupreme Court; the precipitous descent into thegalleries of House and Senate, the rap of theSpeaker's gavel—the rattle of argument as political foescontended in the legislative arena; the moresubdued squabbles on the Senate floor; the savory smellof food rising from the restaurants in the lowerregions; the climb to the dome, the look of the skywhen one came out at the top; Statuary Hall and itsawesome echoes; the Rotunda with its fringe oftired tourists, its frescoed frieze—Columbus,Cortez, Penn, Pizarro—; the mammoth paintings—Pocahontas,and the Pilgrims, De Soto, and theSurrender of Cornwallis, the Signing of theDeclaration, and Washington's Resignation asCommander-in-Chief—Indian and Quaker, Puritan andCavalier—these were some of the things which hadravished the eyes of the boy Derry in the days whenhis father had come to the Capitol to hobnob withold cronies, and his son had been allowed to roamat will.

But above and beyond everything else, there werethe great mural paintings on the west wall of theHouse side, above the grand marble staircase.

"Westward the Course of Empire takes its way—!"

Oh, those pioneers with their faces turnedtowards the Golden West! The tired women and thebronzed men! Not one of them without that eagerlook of hope, of a dream realized as the land ofPromise looms ahead!

Derry had often talked that picture over with hismother. "It was such men, Derry, who made ourcountry—men unafraid—North, South, East andWest, it was these who helped to shape the Nation'sdestiny, as we must help to shape it for those whocome after us."

It was in front of this picture that he was to meetJean. He had wanted to share with her theinspiration of it.

She was late, and he waited, leaning on themarble rail which overlooked the stairway. Peoplewere going up and down passing the picture, butnot seeing it, their pulses calm, their blood cold.The doors of the elevators opened and shut, womencame and went in velvet and fur, laughing. Menfollowed them, laughing, and the picture was not for them.

Derry wondered if it were symbolic, thisindifference of the crowd. Was the world's pageant ofhorrors and of heroism thus unseen by the eyes ofthe unthinking?

And now Jean ascended, the top of her hat first—ablur of gray, then the red of the rose that he hadsent her, a wave of her gray muff as she saw him.He went down to meet her, and stood with her onthe landing. Beneath the painting, on one side,ran the inscription, "No pent up Utica confines ourpowers, but the boundless Continent is ours," onthe other side, "The Spirit moves in its allottedspace; the mind is narrow in a narrow sphere."

Thousands of men and women came and wentand never read those words. But boys read them,sitting on the stairs or leaning over the rail—andtheir minds were carried on and on. Old men,coming back after years to read them again, couldtestify what the words had meant to them in the fieldof high endeavor.

Jean had seen the painting many times, but now,standing on the upper gallery floor with Derry, ittook on new meanings. She saw a girl with hope inher eyes, a young mother with a babe at her breast;homely middle-aged women redeemed from thecommonplace by that long gaze ahead of them; oldwomen straining towards that sunset glow. Shesaw, indeed, the Vision of Brave Women. "If itcould only be like that for me, Derry. Do yousee—they go with their husbands, those women, and Imust stay behind."

"You will go with me, beloved, in spirit—"

They fell into silence before the limitless vista.

And now more people were coming up the stairs,a drawling, familiar voice—Alma Drew on thelanding below. With her a tall young man. Shewas turning on him all her batteries of charm.

Alma passed the picture and did not look at it,she passed the lovers and did not see them. Andshe was saying as she passed, "I don't know whyany man should be expected to fight. I shouldn'tif I were a man."

Jean drew a long breath. "There, but for thegrace of God, goes Jean McKenzie."

Derry laughed. "You were never like that.Not for the least minute. You were afraid for theman you loved. It isn't fear with Alma."

But the thought of Alma did not trouble themlong. There was too much else in their worldtoday. As they walked through the historic halls,they had with them all the romance of the past—andso Robert Fulton with his boats, PèreMarquette with his cross and beads, Frances Willardin her strange old-fashioned dress spoke to them ofthe dreams which certain inspired men and womenhave translated into action.

They talked of these things while they ate theirlunch. The black waiter, who knew Derry,hovered about them. His freedom, too, had been theculmination of a dream.

"Men laugh at the dreamers," Derry said, "thenhonor them after they are dead."

"That's the cruelty, the sadness of it, isn't it?"

"Not to the dreamer. Do you think that PèreMarquette cared for what smaller minds mightthink, or Frances Willard? They had their visionbacked by a great faith in the rightness of things,and so Marquette followed the river and planted thecross, and Frances Willard blazed the way for thething which has come to pass."

After lunch they motored to Drusilla's. Theyused one of Dr. McKenzie's cars. Derry hadceased to draw upon his father's establishment foranything. He lived at the club, and met hisexpenses with the small balance which remained tohis credit in the bank.

"You can give Jean whatever you think best,"he told the Doctor, "but I shall try to live on whatI have until I go, and then on my pay."

"Your pay, my dear boy, will just about equalwhat you now spend in tips."

"I think I shall like it. It's an adventure forrich men when they have to be poor. That's whya lot of fellows have gone into it. They are tiredof being the last word in civilization. They wantto get down to primitive things."

"Mrs. Witherspoon can't imagine Derry Drakewithout two baths a day."

"Can't she? Well, Mrs. Witherspoon may findthat Derry Drake is about like the rest of thefellows. No better and no worse. There is nodisgrace in liking to be clean. The disgrace comeswhen one kicks against a thing that can't be helped."

In the Doctor's car, therefore, they arrived atDrusilla's.

"We have come to tell you that we are going tobe married."

"You Babes in the Wood!"

"Will you come to the wedding?

"Of course I'll come. Marion, do you hear?They are going to be married."

"And after that, Drusilla,"—he smiled as hephrased it—"your Tin Soldier will go to the wars."

Jean glanced from one to the other. "Is thatwhat she called you—a Tin Soldier?"

"It is what I called myself."

Marion having come forward to say the properthing, added, "Drusilla's going, too."

"Drusilla?"

"Yes, with my college unit—to run errands in a flivver."

The next day, encountering Derry on the street,Drusilla opened her knitting bag and brought outa tiny parcel. "It's my wedding gift to you. Ifound it in Emily's toy shop."

It was a gay little French tin soldier. "For amascot;" she told him, seriously. "Derry, dear, Ishall not try to tell you how I feel about yourmarriage to Jean. About your going. If I could singit, you'd know. But I haven't any words. It—itseems so—perfect that the Tin Soldier shouldgo—to the wars—and that the girl he leaves behindhim should be a little white maid like—Jean."

Thus Drusilla, with a shake in her voice,renouncing a—dream.

Derry, who was on his way to Margaret's showedthe tin soldier to Teddy and his little sister. "Heis going to the wars."

"With you?"

"Yes."

"When are you going?"

"As soon as I can—"

"I should think you wouldn't like to leave us."

"Well, I don't. But I am coming back."

"Daddy didn't come back."

"But some men do."

"Perhaps God doesn't love you as much as Hedid Daddy, and He won't want to keep you."

"Perhaps not—"

The things which the child had spoken stayedwith Derry all that day. His feeling about deathhad always been that of a man who has long yearsbefore him. He had rather jauntily conceded thatsome men die young, but that the chances in his casewere for a green old age. He might indeed havefifty years before him, and in fifty years onecould—get ready—age had to do with serious things,people were peaceful and prepared.

But to get ready now. To face the thingsquarely, saying, "I may not come back—thereare, indeed, a thousand chances that I shall notcome." Lacking those fifty years in which to growtowards the thought of dissolution, what ought oneto do? Should a man make himself fit in somespecial fashion?

There was, too, the thought of those whom hemight leave behind. Of Jean—his wife—whomhe would leave. She would break her heart—atfirst. And then—? Would she remember?Would she forget? Would he and those millionsof others who had gone down in battle become dimmemories—pale shadows against the vividbackground of the hurrying world?

He felt that he could not, must not speak ofthese things to Jean. So he talked of them to Emily.

"If anything should happen to me," he said, "Icouldn't, of course, expect that Jean would goon—caring—. And if there should ever be anyoneelse—I—I should want her to be happy."

"Don't try to be magnanimous," Miss Emilyadvised. "You are human, and it isn't in the heartof man to want the woman he loves ever to turn toanother. Let the years take care of that. But youcan be very sure of one thing—that no one willever take your place with Jean."

"But she may marry."

"Why should you torture yourself with that?You have given her something that no one else canever give—the wonder and rapture of first love.And the heroes of a war like this will be in a veryspecial manner set apart! 'A glorious company,the flower of men, to serve as models for the mightyworld!'"

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "You mustthink now only of love and life and of coming back to Jean."

He reached up his hand and caught hers in awarm clasp. "Do you know you are the nearest,thing to a mother that I've known since I lost mine?"

He spoke, too, rather awkwardly, of the feelingabout—getting ready.

"I have always thought that if I tried to livestraight—I've thought, too, that it wouldn't comeuntil I was old—that I should have plenty oftime—and that by then, I should be more—spiritual."

"You will never be more spiritual than you areat this moment. Youth is nearer Heaven than age.I have always thought that. As we grow old—weare stricken by—fear—of poverty, of disease—ofdeath. It is youth which has faith and hope."

Before he left her, he gave her a sacred charge."If anything happens, I know what you'll beto—Jean—and I can't tell you what a help you've beenthis morning."

She was thrilled by that. And after he left hershe thought much about him. Of what it wouldhave meant to her to have a son like that.

Women had said to her, "You should be gladthat you have no boy to send—." But she was notglad. Were they mad, these mothers, to want tohold their boys back? Had the days of peace heldno dangers that they should be so afraid for them now?

For peace had dangers—men and women hadbeen worshipping false gods. They had set up aGolden Calf and had bowed before it—and theirchildren, lured by luxury, emasculated by ease ofliving, had wanted more ease, more luxury, moretime in which to—play!

And now life had become suddenly a vividCrusade, with everybody marching in one direction, andthe young men were manly in the old ways ofstrength and heroism, and the young women werewomanly in the old way of sending their loversforth, and in a new way, when, like Drusilla, theywent forth themselves to the front line of battle.

To have children in these days, meant to havesomething to give. One need not stand beforesuffering humanity empty-handed!

War was a monstrous thing, a murderous thing—butsurely this war was a righteous one—a firewhich would cleanse the world. Men and women,because of it, were finding in themselves somethingwhich could suffer for others, something inthemselves which could sacrifice, something which wentbeyond body and mind, something which reached upand touched their souls.

So, in the midst of darkness, Miss Emily had avision of Light. After the war was over, thingscould never be as they had been before. The spiritwhich had sent men forth in this Crusade, whichhad sent women, would survive, please God, andshow itself in a greater sense of fellowship—ofbrotherhood. Might not men, even in peace, go onpraying as they were praying it now in war, theprayer of Cromwell's men, "Oh, Lord, it's a hardbattle, but it's for the rights of the commonpeople—" Might not the rich young men who werelearning to be the brothers of the poor, and thepoor young men who were learning in a large senseof the brotherhood of the rich—might these notstill clasp hands in a sacred cause?

Yes, she was sorry that she had no son. Slimand gray-haired, a little worn by life's struggle, herblood quickened at the thought of a son like Derry.The warmth of his handclasp, the glimpse of thatinner self which he had given her, these were thingsto hold close to her heart. She had known on thatfirst night that he was—different. She had notdreamed that she should hold him—close.

Rather pensively she arranged her window. Itwas snowing hard, and in spite of the fact thatChristmas was only three days away, customerswere scarce.

The window display was made effective by theuse of Jean's purple camels—a sandy desert, astar overhead, blazing with all the realism of a tinyelectric bulb behind it, the Wise Men, the Inn wherethe Babe lay, and in a far corner a group of shepherdswatching a woolly flock—

Her cyclamen was dead. A window had been leftopen, and when she arrived one morning she hadfound it frozen.

She had thanked Ulrich Stölle for it, in a pleasantlyworded note. She had not dared express herfull appreciation, lest she seem fulsome. Few menin her experience had sent her flowers. Never in allthe years of her good friendship with BruceMcKenzie had he bestowed upon her a single bloom.

Several days had passed, and there had been noanswer to the note. She had not really expected ananswer, but she had thought he might come in.

He came in now, with a great parcel in his arms.He was a picturesque figure in an enveloping capeand a soft hat pulled down over his gray hair, andwith white flakes powdered over his shoulders.

"Good morning, Miss Bridges," he said; "didyou think I was never coming?"

His manner of assuming that she had expectedhim quite took Emily's breath away. "I am gladyou came," she said, simply. "It is rather dreary,with the snow, and this morning I found mycyclamen frozen on the shelf."

He glanced up at it. "We have other flowers,"he said, and, with a sure sense of the dramaticeffect, untied the string of his parcel.

Then there was revealed to Miss Emily's astonishedeyes not the flowers that she had expected,but four small plush elephants, duplicates ineverything but size of the one she had loaned to Ulrich,and each elephant carried on his back a fragrantload of violets cunningly kept fresh by a glass tubehidden in his trappings.

"There," said Ulrich Stölle, "my father sentthem. It is his taste, not mine—but I knew thatyou would understand."

"But," Miss Emily gasped, "did he make them?"

"Most certainly. With his clever old fingers—andhe will make as many more as you wish."

Thus came white elephants back to Miss Emily'sshelves. "It seems almost too good to be true,"she said, sniffing the violets and smiling at him.

"Nothing is too good to be true," he told her,"and now I have something to ask. That you willcome and see my father."

"With pleasure."

He glanced around the empty shop. "Why notnow? There are no customers—and the graylight makes things dreary—. And it is spring inmy hothouses—there are a thousand cyclamensfor the one you have lost, a thousand violets forevery one on the backs of these little elephants—narcissusand daffodils—. Why not?"

Why not, indeed? Why not, when Adventurebeckoned, go to meet it? She had tied herself forso many years to the commonplace and the practical.

And so Miss Emily closed her shop, and went inUlrich's car, leaving a card tucked in the shop door,"Will reopen at three."

It was at one o'clock that Dr. McKenzie cameand found that door shut against him. He shookthe knob with some impatience, and stamped hisfoot impotently when no one answered. Hisorders had come and he must leave for Francetomorrow. He had not told Jean, he had come toEmily to ask her to break the news—.

He stood there in the snow feeling quite unexpectedlyforlorn. Heretofore he had always beenable to put his finger on Emily when he had wantedher. He had needed only to beckon and she had followed.

And how could he know that she was at that verymoment following other beckonings? That she hadresponded to a call that was not the call of selfishneed, but of a subtle understanding of her rarecharm. Bruce McKenzie had, perhaps, subconsciouslyfelt that Emily would be fortunate to havea place by his fireside, to bask in his presence—UlrichStölle leading Emily through the moistfragrance of his hot-houses counted himself blessed bythe gods to have her there. "You see," he said,"that here it is spring."

It was indeed spring, with birds singing, not incages, but free to fly as they pleased; with the soundof water, as a little artificial stream wound its wayover moss-covered rocks set where it might splashand fall over them—with ferns bending down toit and tiny flashing fish following it.

"My father did that," Ulrich explained, "whenhe was younger and stronger. But now he sits inhis chair and works at his toys."

The workshop of Franz Stölle was enteredthrough the door of the last hothouse; he had thusalways a vista of splashing color—red and purplesand yellows—great stretches, and always with thegreen to rest his eyes; with the door openedbetween there came to him the fragrance, and thesinging of birds, and the sound of the little stream.

He sat in a big chair, bent a little, plump andruddy-faced, with a fringe of white hair. He worehorn spectacles—and a velvet coat. He rose whenEmily entered, elegant of manner, in spite of hisrotundity.

"So it is the lady of the elephants, Ulrich?When you telephoned I thought it was too good tobe true."

"Your son says that nothing is too good to betrue," Emily told him, sitting down in the chair thatUlrich placed for her, "but I have a feeling thatthis will all vanish in a moment like Aladdin'spalace—" She waved her hands towards theshelves that went around the room. "I neverexpected to see such toys again."

For there they were—the toys of Germany.The quaint Noah's arks, the woolly dogs and themewing cats—the moon-faced dolls.

"I don't see how you have made them all."

"Many of them were made years ago, Fräulein,and I have kept them for remembrance, but manyof them are new. When my son told me that it washard for you to get toys, I gathered around me afew old friends who learned their trade inNuremberg. We have done much in a few days. We willdo more. We are all patriotic. We will show thePrussians that the children of America do not lackfor toys. What does the Prussian know of play?He knows only killing and killing and killing."

The old man beat his fist upon the table, "Killing!"

"You see," Ulrich said to Emily, "there aremany of us who feel that way. Yet unthinkingpeople cannot see that we are loyal, that our heartsbeat with the hearts of those who have Englishblood and French blood and Italian blood andDutch blood in their veins, and who have but onecountry—America."

The old man had recovered himself. "We arenot here to talk of killing, but of what I and myfriends shall make for you. And you are to havelunch with us? I have planned it, and I won't take'no,' Fräulein. You and I have so much to say toeach other."

Emily wondered if it were really her middle-agedand prosaic self who sat later at the table, beingwaited on by a very competent butler, and deferredto by the two men as if she were a queen.

It was she and the old man who did most of thetalking, but always she was conscious of Ulrich'sattentive eyes, of the weight of the quiet wordswhich he interjected now and then in the midst ofhis father's volubility.

"Germany, my mother, is dead," wailed the oldman. "I have wept over her grave; those whowage this war against humanity are bastards, thereal sons and daughters of that sweet old Germanyare here in America—they have come to theirfoster-mother, and they love her.

"If I had been younger," he went on, "I shouldhave fought. My son would have fought. But asit is we can make toys—and we shall say to thePrussians across the sea, 'You have killed ourmother—your people are no longer our people, noryour God our God.'"

Ulrich took Emily home. She carried with her aNoah's Ark, and a precious pot of cyclamen. Shehad chosen the cyclamen out of all the rest. "It issuch a cheerful thing blooming in my shop."

"There are other cheerful things in your shop,"he told her.

As she met his smiling eyes, she smiled back, "Doyou mean that I am a cheerful thing?"

"A rose, mein Fräulein, when your cheeks arered, like this."

Emily, alone at last in the Toy Shop, took off herhat in front of the mirror and saw her red cheeks.She set the cyclamen safely in a warm corner.The four elephants with their fragrant freight ofviolets made an exotic and incongruous addition tothe Christmas scene in the window.

Bruce McKenzie, coming in, asked, "Where didyou get them?"

"The elephants? Ulrich Stölle brought them.Do you know him?"

"Yes. But I didn't know that you did."

"His father makes toys. I lent him my whiteelephant, and he made these—"

She spoke without self-consciousness, andMcKenzie's mind was on his own matters, so theyswept away from the subject of Ulrich Stölle."Emily," Bruce said, "I have my orders.Tomorrow at twelve I must leave for France."

She gazed at him stupidly. "Tomorrow—?"

"Yes."

"But—Jean—?"

"I haven't told her. I don't know how to tell her."

"You won't be here for the wedding—?"

"No."

"It will break her heart."

"You needn't tell me that. Don't I know it?" Hisvoice was sharp with the tension of suppressed emotion.

He dropped into a chair, then jumped up andplaced one for her. "Sit down, sit down," he said,"and don't make me forget my manners. Somehowthis thing gets me as nothing has ever gottenme before. It isn't that I mind going—I mindhurting—Jean—"

"You have always hated to hurt people," Emilysaid. "In some ways it's a sign of weakness."

"Don't scold," he begged. "I know I'm notmuch of a fellow, but you'll be sorry for me a little,won't you, Emily?"

She did not melt as he had expected to theappeal in his voice. "The thing we have to think ofnow," she said, "is not being sorry for you, buthow we can get Jean married before twelve o'clocktomorrow—"

"Oh, of course we can't."

"Of course we can—if we make up our mindsto it, and it's the only thing to do."

"But nothing is ready."

"Things can be made ready. They can stand upin the rose drawing-room at ten, and you can giveher away."

He looked at her admiringly. "I didn't knowthat you had so much initiative."

She might have told him that it was a quality onwhich she rather prided herself, but that hitherto ithad not seemed to attract him. "There are severalthings as yet undiscovered by you," she remarkedcasually, as she locked up her toys.

Watching her, he wondered idly if there werereally worlds to discover in Emily. It might beinteresting to—find out—.

"Shall you miss me?" he asked.

"Of course. And now if you'll see that the backshutters are barred, we'll be ready to go."

Thus she checked his small attempt at sentiment,and on the way home they talked about Jean. "IfDerry goes, you and she must live together in myhouse. Let that be understood. I'd rather haveher with you than with anyone else in the wholewide world."

Thus again the sacred charge, but this time notas a favor, but in lordly fashion, as one who claimsa right.

Jean and Derry were having tea at the club, butcould not be reached by phone. "They hadprobably motored out into the country," Emily decided."We'll have to do things before they come."

The things that she did were stupendous.

She had a florist up in two hours—and therose-colored drawing room was rosier than ever, and asfragrant as a garden.

She telephoned the clergyman—"At ten o'clock tomorrow."

She telephoned the caterer—"A wedding breakfast—"

She telephoned the dressmaker—"Miss McKenzie's gown—"

She telephoned Margaret and Marion Gray—.

"Is there anyone else?" she asked the Doctor."I suppose we really ought to tell the General."

"Certainly not."

"But Bronson—? Derry will want him."

"If he can keep a secret—yes."

Jean and Derry, arriving after dark, were sweptinto a scene of excitement.

Florists on the stairs!

A frenzied dressmaker waiting with Jean's wedding gown!

Maids with mops and men with vacuums!

Julia and the cook helping at loose ends and dinner late!

What did it all mean?

"It means," said the Doctor, "that you are goingto be married, my dear, at ten o'clock in the morning."

"But why, Daddy—" fear showed in her eyes—

"Ask Emily."

"Is he—going away,—Emily?"

"Yes, dear."

"But he mustn't. Derry, do you hear? He isgoing to France—and he mustn't—"

Derry took her trembling hands in his firm clasp."He must go, you know that, dearest." His touchsteadied her.

He leaned down to her and sang:—

"Jeanne D'Arc, Jeanne D'Arc—
Jeanne D'Arc, la victoire est pour vous."

Her head went up. The color came back to her cheeks.

"Of course," she said, and put away childishthings that she might measure up to the stature ofher lover's faith in her.

And it was Jean, the Woman, who talked longthat night with her father before he went to France.

CHAPTER XXI

DERRY'S WIFE

It snowed hard the next morning. The General, waking, found the daynurse in charge. Bronson came in to get him ready for his breakfast.There was about the old man an air of suppressed excitement. Hehurried a little in his preparations for the General's bath. Buteverything was done with exactness, and it was not until the Generalwas shaved and sitting up in his gorgeous mandarin robe that Bronsonsaid, "I'd like to go out for an hour or two this morning, if you canspare me, sir—"

"In this snow? I thought you hated snow. You've always been a perfectpuss* cat about the cold, Bronson."

"Yes, sir, but this is very important, sir."

The General ran his eye over the spruce figure.

"And you are all dressed up. I hope you are not going to be married,Bronson."

It was an old joke between them. Bronson was a pre-destined bachelor,and the General knew it.

But he liked to tease him.

"No, sir. I'll be back in time to look after your lunch, sir."

The General had been growing stronger, so that he spent several hourseach day in his chair. When Bronson had gone, he rose and movedrestlessly about the room. The day nurse cautioned him. "The Doctordoesn't want you to exert yourself, General Drake."

He was always courteous, but none the less he meant to have his ownway. "Don't worry, Miss Martin. I'll take the responsibility."

He shuffled out into the hall. When she would have followed, he wavedher back. "I am perfectly able to go alone," he told her.

She stood on the threshold watching him. She was very young and shewas a little afraid of him. Her eyes, as she looked upon him, saw anobstinate old man in a gay dressing gown. And the man in the gaydressing gown felt old until he faced suddenly his wife's picture onthe stairs.

It had been weeks since he had seen it, and in those weeks much hadhappened. Her smiling presence came to him freshly, as the springmight come to one housed through a long winter, or the dawn after adark night.

"Edith!"

He leaned upon the balustrade. The nurse, coming out, warned him."Indeed, you'd better stay in your room."

"I'm all right. Please don't worry. You 'tend to your knitting, andI'll take care of myself."

She insisted, however, on bringing out a chair and a rug. "Perhaps itwill be a change for you to sit in the hall," she conceded, and tuckedhim in, and he found himself trembling a little from weakness, and gladof the support which the chair gave him.

It seemed very pleasant to sit there with Edith smiling at him. Forthe first time in many weeks his mind was at rest. Ever since Hildahad come he had felt the pressure of an exciting presence. He feltthis morning free from it, and glad to be free.

What a wife Edith had been! Holding him always to his highest andbest, yet loving him even when he stumbled and fell. Bending above himin her beautiful charity and understanding, raising him up, fosteringhis self-respect in those moments of depression when he had despisedhimself.

What other woman would have done it? What other woman would have kepther love for him through it all? For she had loved him. It had neverbeen his money with her. She would have clung to him in sickness andin poverty.

But Hilda loved his money. He knew it now as absolutely as if she hadsaid it. For the first time in weeks he saw clearly. Last night hiseyes had been opened.

He had been roused towards morning by those soft sounds in the secondroom, which he had heard more than once in the passing weeks. In hisfeverish moments, it had not seemed unlikely that his wife might bethere, coming back to haunt, with her gentle presence, the familiarrooms. There was, indeed, her light step, the rustle of her silkengarments—.

Half-asleep he had listened, then had opened his eyes to find thenight-lamp burning, Hilda's book under it and Hilda gone!

The minutes passed as still his ears were strained. There was not asound in the house but that silken rustle. He wondered if he soughtEdith if she would speak to him. He rose and reached for his dressinggown.

Hilda had grown careless; there was no screen in front of the seconddoor, and the crack was wide. The General standing in the dark saw herbefore his wife's mirror, wearing his wife's jewels, wrapped in thecloak which his wife had worn—triumphant—beautiful!

It was that air of triumph which repelled him. It was a discordantnote in the Cophetua theme. He had liked her in her nurse's white. Inthe trappings which did not belong to her she showed herself a triflevulgar—less than a lady.

He had crept back to bed, and wide-awake, he had worked it all out inhis mind. It was his money which Hilda wanted, the things that hecould give her; he meant to her pink parasols and satin slippers, anddiamonds and pearls and ermines and sables, and a check-book, withunlimited credit everywhere.

And to get the things that she wanted, she had given him that which hadstolen away his brains, which might indeed have done more thanthat—which might have killed his soul.

He had heard her come in, but he had simulated sleep. She had seatedherself by the little table, and had gone on with her book. Betweenhis half-closed eyes he had studied her—seeing her with new eyes—thehard line of her lips, the long white hands, the heaviness of her chin.

Then he had slept, and had waked to find the day nurse on duty. Hefelt that he should be glad never to see Hilda again. He dreaded thenight when he must once more speak to her.

He was very tired sitting there in his chair. The rug had slipped fromhis knees. He tried to reach for it and failed. But he did not wantto call the day nurse. He wanted some one with him who—cared. Heraised his poor old eyes to the lady in the picture. He was cold andtired.

He wished that Bronson would come back—good old Bronson, to pull upthe rug. He wished that Derry might come.

A door below opened and shut. Some one was ascending the stairs. Someone who walked with a light step—some one slim and youthful, in awhite gown—!

"Edith—?"

But Edith's hair had not been crinkled and copper-colored, and Edithwould have come straight up to him; she would not have hesitated on thetop step as if afraid to advance.

"Who are you?"

"Jean—"

"Jean?"

"Derry's wife."

"Come here." He tried to reach out his hand to her, but could not.His tongue felt thick—.

She knelt beside his chair. Her head was bare. She wore no wrap. "Wewere married this morning. And my own father has gone—to France—andI wanted a father—"

"Did Derry tell you to come?"

"Bronson begged me. He was at the wedding—"

"Old Bronson?" He tried to smile, but the smile was twisted.

She was looking up at him fearfully, but her voice did not falter. "Icame to tell you that Derry loves you. He doesn't want your money, oh,you know that he doesn't want it. But he is going away to the—war,and he may be killed, so many men are—killed. And he—loves you—"

"Where is he?"

"I wouldn't let him come. You see, you said things which were hard forhim to forgive. I was afraid you might say such things again."

He knew that he would never say them. "Tell him that—I love him." Hetried to sit up. "Tell him that he is—my son."

He fell back. He heard her quick cry, "Bronson—"

Bronson came running up the stairs, and the nurse who had watched thescene dazedly from the threshold of the General's room ran, too.

Weighted down by a sense of increasing numbness he lifted his agonizedeyes to Jean. "Stay with me—stay—"

Hilda, waked by the day nurse, raged. "You should have called me atonce when he left his room. Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I felt myself competent to manage the case."

"You see how you have managed it—I will be down in a minute. Geteverybody out—"

Her composed manner when she came down showed nothing of that which wasseething within her.

She found Jean in bridal-white sitting by the bed and holding theGeneral's hand. The doctor had been sent for, Derry had been sentfor—things were being swept out of her hands. She blamed it, stillhiding her anger under a quiet manner, on Jean.

"He has had a stroke. It was probably the excitement of your coming."

The day nurse intervened. "It was before she came, Miss Merritt, thatI saw him reach for the rug. I was puzzled and started to investigate,and then I saw her on the stairs—" She smiled at Jean. Never in herlimited young life had the day nurse seen such a lovely bride, and shedid not in the least like Miss Merritt.

Derry coming a little later held Jean's hand in his while he facedHilda. "What does the doctor say?"

The truth came reluctantly. "He may be unconscious for days. He maynever wake up—"

"I do not think we shall need your services—. I will send you a checkfor any amount you may name."

"But—"

"Whatever claim you may have upon him will be settled when he is in acondition to settle anything; until then, my wife and I shall stay—"

Hilda went upstairs and packed her bag. So her house of dreams tumbledabout her. So she left behind her the tiara and the pearl collar withthe diamond slides, and the velvet cloak with the ermine collar. PoorHilda, with her head held high, going out of the shadowed house.

And taking Hilda's place, oh, more than taking her place, was Jean—andthis was her wedding day. The little rose-colored drawing room hadneeded all of its rose to counteract the gray of the world outside,with the snow and Daddy's car standing ready to take him to the station.

But always there had been the thought of Derry to uphold her, and thewonder of their love. Nothing could rob her of that.

He had held her in his arms the night before, and had said, "Tomorrowwe shall be in Woodstock, and shall listen to the chimes—"

And now it was tomorrow, and they were here in this great grim housewith Death at the door.

Quite miraculously Emily arrived, and she and Bronson made a boudoir ofDerry's sitting-room. They filled it with flowers, as was fitting fora bridal-bower. Jean's little trunk had been sent on to Woodstock, butthere was her bag, and a supply of things which Emily brought from home.

A new night nurse came, and Miss Martin was retained for the day. Thesnow still fell, and the old man in the lacquered bed was stillunconscious, his stertorous breathing sounding through the house.

And it was her wedding day!

They dined in the great room where Derry's ancestors gazed down onthem. Emily was there, and it was a bridal feast, with things orderedhurriedly. Bronson, too, had seen to that. But they ate little.Emily talked and Derry ably supplemented her efforts.

But Jean was silent. It was all so different from what one mightexpect—! She still wore her white dress. It was a rather superlativefrock with much cobwebby lace that had been her mother's, and in theplace of her own small string of pearls was the longer string which hadbeen her father's last gift to her. She had worn no veil, her crinkledcopper hair in all its beauty had been uncovered.

"I can't believe that the lovely, lovely lady at the other end of thetable is my wife," Derry told Miss Emily.

Jean smiled at him. She felt as if she were smiling from a greatdistance—and she had to look at him over a perfect thicket of orchids."Shall I always have to sit so far away from you, Derry?" she asked ina very small voice.

"My dearest, no—" and he came and stood behind her, and reached forher little coffee cup and drank where her lips had touched,shamelessly, before the eyes of the sympathetic and romantic Miss Emily.

And now Emily had gone! And at last Jean and Derry were alone in thebridal bower, and Jean was telling Derry again what his father hadsaid. "He begged me to stay—"

Their eyes met. "Dearest, dearest," Derry said, "what is life doing tome?"

"It has given you me, Derry"—such a little, little whisper.

"My beloved—yes."

The next morning they talked it over.

"What am I to do? He needs me more than ever—"

"There must be some way out, Derry."

But what way? The Tin Soldier had jumped from the shelf, but he hadfallen through a crack! And the war was going on without him—!

CHAPTER XXII

JEAN PLAYS PROXY

Christmas morning found the General conscious. He was restless untilJean was brought to him. He had a feeling that she had saved him fromHilda. He wanted her where he could see her. "Don't leave me," hebegged.

She slipped away to eat her Christmas dinner with Derry and Emily andMargaret. It was an early dinner on account of the children. They atein the big dining room, and after dinner there was a tree, with UlrichStölle playing Father Christmas. It had come about quite naturallythat he should be asked. It had been unthinkable that Derry couldenter into the spirit of it, so Emily had ventured to suggest Ulrich."He will make an ideal Santa Claus."

But it developed that he was not to be Santa Claus at all. He was tobe Father Christmas, with a wreath of mistletoe instead of a red cap.

Teddy was intensely curious about the change. "But why isn't he SantaClaus?" he asked.

"Well, Santa Claus was—made in Germany."

"Oh!"

"But now he has joined the Allies and changed his name."

"Oh!"

"And he wears mistletoe, because mistletoe is the Christmas bush, andred caps don't really mean anything, do they?"

"No, but Mother—"

"Yes?"

"If Santa Claus has joined the Allies what will the little Germanchildren do?"

What indeed?

Jean had trimmed a little tree for the General, and the childrencarried it up to him carefully and sang a carol—having first arrangedon his table, under the lamp, the purple camels, to create anatmosphere.

"'We three kings of Orient are,
Bearing gifts we traverse far
Field and fountain, moor and mountain,
Following yonder star—'"

"Yonner 'tar," piped Margaret-Mary.

"Yon-der-er ste-yar," trailed Teddy's falsetto.

"'Oh, star of wonder, star of might,
Star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to the perfect light—'"

Twenty-four hours ago Hilda's book had lain where the purple camels nowplayed their little part in the great Christmas drama. In the soul ofthe stricken old man on the bed entered something of the peace of theholy season.

"Oh, 'tar of wonner—"

"Ste-yar of wonder-er—" chimed the little voices.

When the song was finished, Margaret-Mary made a little curtsey andTeddy made a manly bow, and then they took their purple camels and leftthe tree on the table with its one small candle burning.

The General laid his left hand over Jean's—his right was useless—andsaid to Derry: "Your mother's jewels are my Christmas gift to her. Nomatter what happens, I want her to have them."

The evening waned, and the General still held Jean's hand. Every bonein her body ached. Never before had she grown weary in the service ofothers. She told herself as she sat there that she had always been asort of sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice sort of person. It wasonly fair that she should have her share of hardness.

The nurse begged her in a whisper to leave the General. "He won'tknow." But when Jean moved, that poor left hand tightened on hers andshe shook her head.

Then Derry came and sat with his arm about her.

"My darling, you must rest."

She laid her head against her husband's shoulder, as he sat beside her.After a while she slept, and the nurse unlocked the clinging oldfingers, and Derry carried his little wife to bed.

And so Christmas passed, and the other days, wonderful days in spite ofthe shadow which hung over the big house. For youth and love laugh atforebodings and they pushed as far back into their minds as possible,the thought of the thing which had to be faced.

But at last Derry faced it. "It is my self-respect, Jean."

They were sitting in her room with Muffin, wistful and devoted, on therug at Jean's feet. The old dog, having been banished at first byBronson, had viewed his master's wife with distrust. Gradually she hadwon him over, so that now, when she was not in the room, he hunted up ashoe or a glove, and sat with it until she came back.

"It is my self-respect, Jean-Joan."

She admitted that. "But—?"

"I can't stay out of the fighting and call myself a man. It has cometo that with me."

She knew that it had come to that. She had thought a great deal aboutit. She lay awake at night thinking about it. She thought of it asshe sat by the General's bed, day after day, holding his hand.

The doctor's report had been cautious, but it had amounted to this—theGeneral might live to a green old age, some men rallied remarkablyafter such a shock. He rather thought the General might rally, butthen again he might not, and anyhow he would be tied for months,perhaps for years, to his chair.

The old man was giving to his daughter-in-law an affection compoundedof that which he had given to his wife and to his son. It was as if incoming up the stairs in her white gown on her wedding day, Jean hadbrought a bit of Edith back to him. For deep in his heart he knew thatwithout her, Derry would not have come.

So he clung pathetically to that little hand, which seemed the onlyanchor in his sea of loneliness. Pathetically his old eyes begged herto stay. "You won't leave me, Jean?" And she would promise, and sitday after day and late into the night, holding his hand.

And as she sat with him, there grew up gradually within her aconviction which strengthened as the days went by. She could tell thevery moment when she had first thought of it. She had left the Generalwith Bronson while she went to dress for dinner. Derry was waiting forher, and usually she would have flown to him, glad of the moment whenthey might be together. But something halted her at the head of thestairs. It was as if a hand had been put in front of her, barring theway.

The painted lady was looking at her with smiling eyes, but back of theeyes she seemed to discern a wistful appeal—"I want you to stay. Nomatter what happens I beg that you will stay."

But Jean didn't want to stay. All the youth in her rebelled againstthe thing that she saw ahead of her. She yearned to be free—to liveand love as she pleased, not a prisoner in that shadowed room.

So she pushed it away from her, and so there came one morning a letterfrom her father.

"Drusilla went over on the same boat. It was a surprising thing tofind her there. Since I landed, I haven't seen her. But I met CaptainHewes in Paris, and he was looking for her.

"I had never known how fine she was until those days on the boat. Itwas wonderful on the nights when everything was darkened and we werefeeling our way through the danger zone, to have her sing for us. Ibelieve we should all have gone to the bottom singing with her if asubmarine had sunk us.

"I am finding myself busier than I have ever been before, findingmyself, indeed, facing the most stupendous thing in the world. Itisn't the wounded men or the dead men or the heart-breaking aspect ofthe refugees that gets me, it is the sight of the devastatedcountry—made barren and blackened into hell not by devils, but bythose who have called themselves men. When I think of our own country,ready soon to bud and bloom with the spring, and of this country wherespring will come and go, oh, many springs, before there will be bud andbloom, I am overwhelmed by the tragic contrast. How can we laugh overthere when they are crying here? Perhaps more than anything else, thedifference in conditions was brought home to me as I motored the otherday through a country where there was absolutely no sign of life, not atree or a bird—except those war birds, the aeroplanes, hovering abovethe horizon.

"Well, as we stopped our car for some slight repairs, there rose upfrom a deserted trench, a lean cat with a kitten in her mouth. Oh,such a starved old cat, Jean, gray and war-worn. And her kitten waslittle and blind, and when she had laid it at our feet, she went backand got another. Then she stood over them, mewing, her eyes big andhungry. But she was not afraid of us, or if she was afraid, she stoodher ground, asking help for those helpless babies.

"Jean, I thought of Polly Ann. Of all the petted Polly Anns inAmerica, and then of this starved old thing, and they seemed sotypical. You are playing the glad game over there, and it is easy toplay it with enough to eat and plenty to wear, and away from the horrorof it all. But how could that old puss*-cat be glad, how could she beanything but frightened and hungry and begging my help?

"Well, we took her in. We had some food with us, and we gave her allshe could eat, and then she curled up on a pile of bags in the bottomof the car, and lay there with her kittens, as happy as if we were notgoing lickety-split over the shell-torn spaces.

"And that your tender heart may be at rest, I may as well tell you thatshe and the kittens are living in great content in a country housewhere one of the officers who was in the car with us is installed. Wehave named her Dolores, but it is ceasing to be appropriate. She is nolonger sad, and while she is on somewhat slim fare like the rest of us,she is a great hunter and catches mice in the barn, so that she isgrowing strong and smooth, and she is not, perhaps, to be pitied asmuch as Polly Ann on her pink cushion.

"And here I am writing about cats, while the only thing that is reallyin my heart is—You.

"Ever since the moment I left you, I have carried with me the vision ofyou in your wedding gown—my dear, my dear. Perhaps it is just as wellthat I left when I did, for I am most inordinately jealous of Derry,not only because he has you, but because he has love and life beforehim, while I, already, am looking back.

"My work here is, as you would say, 'wonderful.' How I should like tohear you say it! There are things which in all my years of practice, Ihave never met before. How could I meet them? It has taken thisgeneration of doctors to wrestle with the problem of treating mentortured by gas, and with nerves shaken by sights and sounds withoutparallel in the history of the world.

"But I am not going to tell you of it. I would rather tell you howmuch I love you and miss you, and how glad I am that you are not hereto see it all. Yet I would have all Americans think of those who arehere, and I would have you help until it—hurts. You must know, myJean, how moved I am by it, when I ask you, whom I have alwaysshielded, to give help until it hurts—

"I have had a letter from Hilda. She wants to come over. I haven'tanswered the letter. But when I do, I shall tell her that there may besomething that she can do, but it will not be with me. I need womenwho can see the pathos of such things as that starved cat and kittensout there among the shell-holes, and Hilda would never have seen it.She would have left the cat to starve."

Jean found herself crying over the letter. "I am not helping at all,Derry."

"My dear, you are."

"I am not. I am just sitting on a pink cushion, like Polly Ann—-"

It was the first flash he had seen for days of her girlish petulance.He smiled. "That sounds like the Jean of yesterday."

"Did you like the Jean of yesterday better than the Jean of to-day?"

"There is only one Jean for me—yesterday, today and forever."

She stood a little away from him. "Derry, I've been thinking andthinking—"

He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to him. "Whathave you been thinking, Jean-Joan?"

"That you must go—and I will take care of your father."

"You?"

"Yes. Why not, Derry?"

"I won't have you sacrificed."

"But you want me to be brave."

"Yes. But not burdened. I won't have it, my dear."

"But—you promised your mother. I am sure she would be glad to let mekeep your promise."

She was brave now. Braver than he knew.

"I can't see it," he said, fiercely. "I can see myself leaving youwith Emily, in your own house—to live your own life. But not to sitin Dad's room, day after day, sacrificing your youth as I sacrificed mychildhood and boyhood—my manhood—. I am over thirty, Jean, and Ihave always been treated like a boy. It isn't right, Jean; our livesare our own, not his."

"It is right. Nobody's life seems to be his own in these days. Andyou must go—and I can't leave him. He is so old, and helpless, Derry,like the poor puss*-cat over there in France. His eyes are likethat—hungry, and they beg—. And oh, Derry, I mustn't be like PollyAnn, on a pink cushion—."

She tried to laugh and broke down. He caught her up in his arms.Light as thistledown, young and lovely!

She sobbed on his heart, but she held to her high resolve. He mustgo—and she would stay. And at last he gave in.

He had loved her dearly, but he had not looked for this, that she wouldgive herself to hardness for the sake of another. For the first timehe saw in his little wife something of the heroic quality which hadseemed to set his mother apart and above, as it were, all other women.

BOOK THREE

The Bugle Calls

The wooden trumpeters that were carved on the door blew with all theirmight, so that their cheeks were much larger than before. Yes, theyblew "Trutter-a-trutt—trutter-a-trutt—"…

CHAPTER XXIII

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Jean's world was no longer wonderful—not in the sense that it had oncebeen, with all the glamour of girlish dreams and of youthful visions.

She had never thought of life as a thing like this in the days when shehad danced down to the confectioner's, intent on good times.

But now, with her father away, with Derry away, with the city frozenand white, and with not enough coal to go around, with many of therooms in the house shut that fuel might be conserved, with Margaret andthe children and Nurse installed as guests at the General's until theweather grew warmer, with Emily transforming her Toy Shop into asurgical dressings station, and with her father-in-law turning over toher incredible amounts of money for the Red Cross and Liberty Bonds andWar Stamps, life began to take on new aspects of responsibility andseriousness.

She could never have kept her balance in the midst of it all, if Derryhad not written every day. Her father wrote every day, also, but therewere long intervals between his letters, and then they were apt toarrive all at once, a great packet of them, to be read and re-read andpassed around.

But Derry's letters, brought to her room every morning by Bronson,contained the elixir which sent her to her day's work with shining eyesand flushed cheeks. Sometimes she read bits of them to Bronson.Sometimes, indeed, there were only a few lines for herself, for Derrywas being intensively trained in a Southern camp, working like an ant,with innumerable other ants, all in olive-drab, with different coloredcords around their hats.

Sometimes she read bits of the letters to Margaret at breakfast, andafter breakfast she would go up to the General and read everything tohim except the precious words which Derry had meant for her very ownself.

And then she and the General would tell each other how reallyextraordinary Derry was!

It was a never-failing subject, of intense interest to both of them.For there was always this to remember, that if the world was no longera radiant and shining world, if the day's task was hard, and if now andthen in the middle of the night she wept tears of loneliness, if therewere heavy things to bear, and hard things and sad things, one factshone brilliantly above all others, Derry was as wonderful as ever!

"There was never such a boy," the General would chant in his deep bass.

"Never," Jean would pipe in her clear treble.

And when they had chorused thus for a while, the General would dictatea letter to Derry, for his hand was shaky, and Jean would write it outfor him, and then she would write a letter of her own, and after thatthe day was blank, and the night until the next morning when anotherletter came. So she lived from letter to letter.

"You have never seen Washington like this," she wrote one day inFebruary, "we keep only a little fire in the furnace, and I am wearingflannels for the first time in my life. We dine in sweaters, and thechildren are round and rosy in the cold. And the food steams in theicy air of the dining room, and you can't imagine how different it allis—with the servants bundled up like the rest of us. We keep yourfather warm by burning wood in the fireplace of his room, and we havegiven half the coal in the cellar to people who haven't any."

"I am helping Cook with the conservation menus, and it is funny to seehow topsy-turvy everything is. It is perfectly patriotic to eatmushrooms and lobsters and squabs and ducklings, and it is unpatrioticto serve sausages and wheat cakes. And Cook can't get adjusted to it.She will insist upon bacon for breakfast, because well-regulatedfamilies since the Flood have eaten bacon—and she feels that in someway we are sacrificing self-respect or our social status when werefrain.

"Your father is such an old dear, Derry. He has war bread and milk forlunch, and I carry it to him myself in the pretty old porcelain bowlthat he likes so much.

"It was one day when I brought the milk that he spoke of Hilda. 'Whereis she?'

"I told him that she was still in town, and that you had given her acheck which would carry her over a year or two, and he said that he wasglad—that he should not like to see her suffer. The porcelain bowlhad reminded him of her. She had asked him once what it cost, andafter she had found out, she had never used it. She evidently stoodquite in awe of anything so expensive.

"Your mother and I are getting to be very good friends, dearest. WhenI am dreadfully homesick for you, I go and sit on the stairs, and shesmiles at me. It is terribly cold in the hall, and I wrap myself up inyour fur coat, and it is almost like having your arms around me."

She was surely making the best of things, this little Jean, when shefound comfort in being mothered by a painted lady on the stairs, and inbeing embraced by a fur coat which had once been worn by her husband!

She kept Derry's tin soldier, which Drusilla had given him, on herdesk. "You shall have him when you go to France, but until then he isa good little comrade, and I say; 'Good-morning' to him and'Good-night.' Yet I sometimes wonder whether he likes it there on theshelf, and whether he is crying, 'I want to go to the wars—'"

She was very busy every morning in Emily's room, working on thesurgical dressings. She hated it all. She hated the oakum and thegauze, the cotton and the compresses, the pneumonia jackets and thesplit-irrigation pads, the wipes, the triangulars, the many-tailed andthe scultetus. Other women might speak lightly of five-yard rolls asdressing for stumps, of paper-backs "used in the treatment of largesuppurating wounds." Jean shivered and turned white at these things.Her vivid imagination went beyond the little work-room with itswhite-veiled women to those hospitals back of the battle line wheremutilated men lay waiting for the compresses and the wipes and thebandages, men in awful agony—.

But the lesson she was learning was that of harnessing her emotions tothe day's work; and if her world was no longer wonderful in a care-freesense, it was a rather splendid world of unselfishness andself-sacrifice, although she was not conscious of this, but felt itvaguely.

She wore now, most of the time, her nun's frock of gray, which hadseemed to foreshadow something of her future on that glorified day whenDerry had first come to her. She had laid away many of her lovelythings, and one morning Teddy remarked on the change.

"You don't dwess up any more."

Nurse stood back of his chair. "Dress—"

"Dur-wess."

"Don't you like this dress, Teddy?"

"I liked the boo one."

"Blue—"

"Ble-yew, an' the pink one, and all the shiny ones you used to wear atnight."

"Blue dresses and pink dresses and shiny dresses cost a lot of money,Teddy, and I shouldn't have any money left for Thrift Stamps."

Thrift stamps were a language understood by Teddy, as he would not haveunderstood the larger transactions of Liberty Bonds. He and theGeneral held long conversations as to the best means of obtaining alarge supply of stamps, and the General having listened to Margaret whowanted the boy to work for his offering, suggested an entrancing plan.Teddy was to feed the fishes in the dining-room aquarium, he was tofeed Muffin, and he was to feed Polly Ann.

It sounded simple, but there were difficulties. In the first place hehad to face Cook, and Cook hated to have children in the kitchen.

"But you'd have to face more than that if you were grown up and in thetrenches. And Hodgson is really very kind."

"Well, she doesn't look kind, Mother."

"Why not?"

"Well, she doesn't smile, and her face is wed."

"Red, dear."

"Ur-ed—. And when I ask her for milk for Polly, she says 'Milk forcats,' and when she gets it out, she slams the 'frigerator door."

"Refrigerator, dear."

"Rif-iggerator."

But in the main Teddy went to his task valiantly. He conserved bonesfor Muffin and left-over corn-meal cakes. Polly Ann dined rathermonotonously on fish boiled with war-bread crusts, on the back ofCook's big range. Hodgson was conscientious and salted it and cooledit, and kept it in a little covered granite pail, and it was from thispail that Teddy ladled stew into Polly Ann's blue saucer. "Mother saysit is very good of you, Hodgson, to take so much trouble."

Hodgson, whose face was redder than ever, as she broiled mushrooms forlunch, grunted, "I'd rather do it than have other people messin'around."

Teddy surveyed her anxiously. "You don't mind having me here, do you,Hodgson?"

His cheeks were rosy, his bronze hair bright, his sturdy legs planted atrifle apart, Polly's dish in one hand, the big spoon in the other."No, I don't mind," she admitted, but it was some time before sheacknowledged even to herself how glad she was when that bright figureappeared.

Feeding the fishes presented few problems, and gradually thrift stampsfilled the little book, and there was a war stamp, and more thriftstamps and more war stamps, and Muffin and Polly Ann waxed fat andfriendly, and were a very lion and lamb for lying down together.

Then there came a day when Teddy, feeding the fishes in the aquarium,heard somebody say that Hodgson's son was in the war.

He went at once to the kitchen. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked thecook, standing in front of her where she sat cutting chives and peppersand celery on a little board for salad.

"Tell you what?"

"That your boy was in Fwance."

Hodgson's red face grew redder, and to Teddy's consternation, a tearran down her cheek.

He stood staring at her, then flew upstairs to his mother. "Cook'scryin'."

"Teddy—"

"She is. Because her son is in Fwance."

After that when he went down to get things for Muffin and Polly Ann, hesaid how s'prised he was and how nice it was now that he knew, andwasn't she pr-roud? And he fancied that Hodgson was kinder and softer.She told him the name of her son. It was Charley, and she and Teddytalked a great deal about Charley, and Teddy sent him some chocolate,and Hodgson told Margaret. "He's a lovely boy, Mrs. Morgan. May younever raise him to fight."

"I should want him to be as brave as his father, Hodgson."

"Yes. My boy's brave, but it was hard to let him go." Then, struck bythe look on Margaret's face, she said, "Forgive me, ma'am; if mine istaken from me, I'd like to feel as you do. You ain't makin' otherpeople unhappy over it."

"I think it is because my husband still lives for me, Hodgson."

Hodgson cried into her apron. "It ain't all of us that has your faith.But if I loses him, I'll do my best."

And so the painted lady on the stairs saw all the sinister things thatHilda had brought into the big house swept out of it. She saw Hodgsonthe cook trying to be brave, and bringing up Margaret's tea in theafternoons for the sake of the moment when she might speak of her boyto one who would understand; she saw Emily, coming home dead tiredafter a hard day's work, but with her face illumined. She saw Margaretsmiling, with tears in her heart, she saw Jean putting aside childishthings to become one of the women that the world needed.

Brave women all of them, women with a vision, women raised to heroicheights by the need of the hour!

The men, too, were heroic. Indeed, the General, trying to control hisappetite, was almost pathetically heroic. He had given up sugar,although he hated his coffee without it, and he had a little boy'sappetite for pies and cakes.

"When the war is over," he told Teddy, "we will order a cake that's ashigh as a house, and we will eat it together."

Teddy giggled. "With frostin'?"

"Yes. I remember when Derry was a lad that we used to tell him thestory of the people who baked a cake so big that they had to climbladders to reach the top. Well, that's the kind of cake we'll have."

Yet while he made a joke of it, he confessed to Jean. "It is harderthan fighting battles. I'd rather face a gun than deny myself thethings that I like to eat and drink."

Bronson was contributing to the Red Cross and buying Liberty Bonds, andthat was brave of Bronson. For Bronson was close, and the hardestthing that he had to do was to part with his money, or to take lessinterest than his rather canny investments had made possible.

And Teddy, the man of his family, came one morning to his mother."I've just got to do it," he said in a rather shaky voice.

"Do what, dear?"

"Send my books to the soldiers."

She let him do it, although she knew how it tore his heart. You see,there were the Jungle Books, which he knew the soldiers would like, and"Treasure Island," and "The Swiss Family Robinson," and "HuckleberryFinn." He brought his fairy books, too, and laid them on the altar ofpatriotism, and "Toby Tyler," which had been his father's, and "Underthe Lilacs," which he adored because of little brown-faced Ben and hisdog, Sancho.

He was rapturously content when his mother decided that the fairy booksand Toby and brown-faced Ben might still be his companions. "You seethe soldiers are men, dear, and they probably read these when they werelittle boys."

"But won't I wead them when I grow up, Mother?"

"You may want to read older books."

But Teddy was secretly resolved that age should not wither nor customstale the charms of the beloved volumes. And that he should love themto the end. His mother thought that he might grow tired of them someday and told him so.

"I can wead them to my little boys," he said, hopefully, "and to theirlittle boys after that," and having thus established a long line ofprospective worshippers of his own special gods, he turned to otherthings.

General Drake, growing gradually better, went now and then in his warmclosed car for a ride through the Park. Usually Jean was with him, orBronson, and now and then Nurse with the children.

It was one morning when the children were with him that he said toNurse: "Take them into the Lion House for a half hour, I'll drivearound and come back for you."

Nurse demurred. "You are sure that you won't mind being left, sir?"

"Why not?" sharply. "I am perfectly able to take care of myself."

He watched them go in, then he gave orders to drive at once to theConnecticut Avenue entrance.

A woman stood by the gate, a tall woman in a long blue cloak and aclose blue bonnet. In the clear cold, her coloring showed vivid pinkand white. The General spoke through the tube; the chauffeur descendedand opened the door.

"If you will get in," the General said to the woman, "you can tell mewhat you have to say—"

"Perhaps I should not have asked it," Hilda said, hesitating, "but Ihad seen you riding in the Park, and I thought of this way—I couldn'tof course, come to the house."

"No." He had sunk down among his robes. "No."

"I felt that perhaps you had been led to—misunderstand." She camedirectly to the point. "I wanted to know—what I had done—what hadmade the difference. I couldn't believe that you had not meant whatyou said."

He stirred uneasily. "I have been very ill—"

Her long white hands were ungloved, the diamonds that he had given hersparkled as she drew the ring off slowly. "I felt that I ought to giveyou this—if it was all really over."

"It is all over. But keep it—please."

"I should like to keep it," she admitted frankly, "because, you see,I've never had a ring like this."

It was the Cophetua and Beggar Maid motif but it left him cold."Hilda," he said, "I saw you that night trying on my wife's jewels.That was my reason."

She was plainly disconcerted. "But that was child's play. I had neverhad anything—it was like a child—dressing up."

"It was not like that to me. I think I had been a rather fatuousfool—thinking that there might be in me something that you might carefor. But I knew then that without my money—you wouldn't care—"

"People's motives are always mixed," she told him. "You know that."

"Yes, I know."

"You liked me because I was young and made you feel young. I liked youbecause you could give me things."

"Yes. But now the glamour is gone. You make me feel a thousand yearsold, Hilda."

"Why?" in great surprise.

"Because I know that if I had no wealth to offer you, you would see mefor what I am, an aged broken creature for whom you have notenderness—"

It was time for him to be getting back to the Lion House. They stoppedagain at the gate. "If you will keep the ring," he said, "I shall beglad to think that you have it. Jean gays Derry gave you a check. Ifit is not enough to buy pink parasols, will you let me give youanother?" He was speaking with the ease of his accustomed manner.

"No; I am not an—adventuress, though you seem to think that I am, andto condemn me for it."

"I condemn you only for one thing—for that flat bottle behind thebooks."

"But you wanted it."

"For that reason you should have kept it away. You should have obeyedorders."

"You asked me to doff my cap, so I—doffed my discipline." She wasstanding on the ground, holding the door open as she talked; again hewas aware of the charm of her pink and white.

"Good-bye, Hilda." He reached out his hand to her.

She took it. "I am going to France."

"When?"

"As soon as I can." She stepped back and the door was shut betweenthem. As the car turned, Hilda waved her hand, and the General had asense of sudden keen regret as the tall cloaked figure with its look ofyouth and resoluteness faded into the distance.

When he reached the Lion House the children were waiting. "Did youhear him roar?" Teddy asked as he climbed in.

"No."

"Well, he did, and we came out 'cause it fwightened Peggy."

"Frightened—" from Nurse.

"Fr-ightened. But I liked the leopards best."

"Why?"

"Because they're pre-itty."

"You can't always trust—pretty things."

"Can't you tre-ust—leopards—General Drake?"

The General was not sure, and presently he fell into silence. His mindwas on a pretty woman whom he could not trust.

That night he said to Jean, "Hilda is going to France."

"Oh—how do you know?"

"I met her in the Park."

He was sitting, very tired, in his big chair. Jean's little hand wasin his.

"Poor Hilda," he said at last, looking into the fire, as if he sawthere the vision of his lost dreams.

"Oh, no—" Jean protested.

"Yes, my dear, there is so much that is good in the worst of us, and somuch that is bad in the best—and perhaps she struggles withtemptations which never assail you."

Jean's lips were set in an obstinate line. "Daddy was always sayingthings like that about Hilda."

"Well, we men are apt to be charitable—to beauty in distress." TheGeneral was keenly and humorously aware that if Hilda had been ugly, hemight not have been so anxious about the pink parasol. He might not,indeed, have pitied her at all!

And now in Jean's heart grew up a sharply defined fear of Hilda. Inthe old days there had been cordial dislike, jealousy, perhaps, butnever anything like this. The question persisted in the back of hermind. If Hilda went to France, would she see Daddy and weave herwicked spells. To find the General melting into pity, in spite of thechaos which Hilda's treachery had created, was to wonder if Daddy, too,might melt.

She wrote to Derry about it.

"I would try and see her if I knew what to say, but when I even thinkof it I am scared. I never liked her, and I feel now as if I should beglad to pin together the pages of my memory of her, as I pinnedtogether the pages of one of my story books when I was a little girl.There was a shark under water in the picture and two men were trying toget away from him. I hated that picture and shivered every time Ilooked at it, so I stuck in a pin and shut out the sight of it.

"Your father has had two letters from her since the day when he saw herin the Park. Bronson always brings the mail to me, and you know what adistinctive hand Hilda writes, there is no mistaking it. Your fatherdropped the letters into the fire, but she ought not to write to him,Derry, and I should like to tell her so.

"But if I told her, she would laugh at me, and that would be the end ofit. For you can't rage and tear and rant at a thing that is as cold asstone. Oh, my dearest, I need you so much to tell me what to do, andyet I would not have you here—

"I met Alma Drew the other day, and she said, as lightly as you please,'Do you know, I can't quite fancy Derry Drake in the trenches.'

"I looked at her for a minute before I could answer, and then I said,'I can fancy him with his back to the wall, fighting a thousand Huns—!'

"She shrugged her shoulders, 'You're terribly in love.'

"'I am,' I said, and I hope I said it calmly, 'but there's more thanlove in a woman's belief in her husband's bravery—there's respect.And it's something rather—sacred, Alma.' And then I choked up andcouldn't say another word, and she looked at me in a rather stunnedfashion for a moment, and then she said, 'Gracious Peter, do you lovehim like that?' and I said, 'I do,' and she laughed in a funny littleway, and said, 'I thought it was his millions.'

"I was perfectly furious. But you can't argue with such people. Iknow I was as white as a sheet. 'If anything should happen to Derry,'I said, 'do you think that all the money in the world would comfort me?'

"She stopped smiling. 'It would comfort me,' then suddenly she heldout her hand. 'But I fancy you're different, and Derry is a luckyfellow.' which was rather nice and human of her, wasn't it?

"Life is growing more complicated than ever here in Washington. Thecrowds pour in as if the Administration were a sort of Pied Piper andhad played a time, and the people who have lived here all their livesare waking to something like activity. Great buildings are going up asif some Aladdin had rubbed a lamp—. None of us are doing the thingswe used to do. We don't even talk about the things we used to talkabout, and we go around in blue gingham and caps, and white linen andveils, and we hand out sandwiches to the soldiers and sailors, anddrive perfectly strange men in our cars on Government errands, and makeLiberty Bond Speeches from many platforms, and all the old theories ofwhat women should do are forgotten in the rush of the things which mustbe done by women. It is as if we had all been bewitched and turnedinto somebody else.

"Well, I wish that Hilda could be turned into somebody else. Intosomebody as nice as—Emily—. But she won't be. She hasn't beenchanged the least bit by the war, and everybody else has, even Alma, orshe wouldn't have said that about your being lucky to have me. Are youlucky, Derry?

"And when Hilda sets her mind on a thing—. Oh, I can't seem to talkof anything but Hilda—when she sets her mind on anything, she gets itin one way or another—and that's why I am afraid of her."

Derry wrote back.

"Don't be afraid of anything, Jean-Joan. And it won't do any good totalk to Hilda. I don't want you to talk to her. You are too much of awhite angel to contend against the powers of darkness.

"As for my luck in having you, it is something which transcendsluck—it just hits the stars, dearest.

"I wonder what the fellows do who haven't any wives to anchorthemselves to in a time like this? Through, all the day I have thishour in mind when I can write to you—and I think there are lots ofother fellows like that—for I can see them all about me here in theHut, bending over their letters with a look on their faces which isn'tthere at any other time.

"By Jove, Jean-Joan, I never knew before what women meant in the livesof men. Here we are marooned, as it were, on an island of masculinity,yet it isn't what the other fellows think of us that counts, it is whatyou think who are miles away. Always in the back of our minds is thethought of what you expect of us and demand of us, and added to what wedemand and expect of ourselves, it sways us level. We don't talk agreat deal about you, but now and then some fellow says, 'My wife,' andwe all prick up our ears and want to hear the rest of it.

"It is a great life, dearest, in spite of the hard work, in spite ofthe stress and strain. And to me who have known so little of the greathuman game it is a great revelation.

"In the first place, there has been brought to me the knowledge of thejoy of real labor. I shall never again be sorry for the man who toils.You see, I had never toiled, not in the sense that a man does whoselabor counts. I was always a rather anxious and lonely little boy,looking after my father and trying to help my mother, and feeling a bitof a mollycoddle because I had a tutor and did not go to school withthe other chaps. In the eyes of the world I was looked upon as a luckyfellow, but I know now what I have missed. In these days I am rubbingelbows with fellows who have had to hustle, and I am discovering thatlife is a great game, and that I have missed the game. If Dad had beendifferent, he might have pushed me into things, as some men with moneypush their sons, making them stand on their own feet. But Dad liked aneasy life, and he was perhaps entitled to ease, for he had struggled inhis younger years. But I have never struggled. I have always hadsomebody to brush my clothes and to bring my breakfast, and I think Ihave had a sort of hazy idea that life was like that for everybody—orif it wasn't, then the people who couldn't be brushed and breakfastedby others were much to be pitied.

"Oh, I've been a Tin Soldier, Jean-Joan, left out not only of the warbut of life. I've been on the shelf all these years in our big house,with the wooden trumpets blowing, 'Trutter-a-trutt' while other menhave striven.

"When I first came here I had a sort of detached feeling. I had noexperiences to match with the experiences of other men. I had neverhad to rush in the morning to catch a subway, I had never eaten, to putit poetically, by candlelight, so that I might get to the store byeight. I had never sold papers, or plowed fields, or stood behind acounter. I had never sat at a desk, I had never in fact done anythingreally useful, I had just been rich, and that isn't much of abackground as I am beginning to see it here—.

"I find myself having a rather strange feeling of exaltation as thedays go by, because for the first time I am a cog in a great machine,for the first time I am toiling and sweating as I rather think it wasintended that men should toil and sweat. And the friends that I ammaking are the sign and seal of the levelling effects of this greatwar. Not one of the men of what you might call my own class interestsme half as much as Tommy Tracy, who before he entered the service drovethe car of one of Dad's business associates. I have often riddenbehind Tommy, but he doesn't know it. And I don't intend that heshall. He rather fancies that I am a scholarly chap torn from mybooks, and he patronizes me on the strength of his knowledge ofpractical things.

"Tommy likes to eat, and he talks a great deal about his mother'scooking. He says there was always tripe for Sunday mornings, andcorned beef and cabbage on Mondays, and Monday was wash-day!

"I wish you could hear him tell what wash-day meant to him. It is asort of poem, the way he puts it. He doesn't know that it is poetry,though Vachell Lindsay would, or Masters, or some of those fellows.

"It seems that he used to help his mother, because he was a stronglittle fellow, and could turn the wringer, and they would get up veryearly because he had to go to school, and in the spring and summer theywashed out of doors, under a tree in the yard, and his mother's eyeswere bright and her cheeks were red and her arms were white, and shewas always laughing. There's a memory for a man on the battlefield,dearest, a healthy, hearty memory of the day's work of a boy, and of abright-eyed mother, and of a good dinner at the end of hours of toil.

"Perhaps with such a mother it isn't surprising that Tommy has made somuch of himself. He has aspirations far beyond driving some otherman's car, and if he keeps on he'll have a little flivver of his ownbefore he knows it—when the war ends, and he can strike out, with hisenergy at the boiling point.

"There are a lot of men who have belonged not to the idle rich, but tothe idle poor, and the discipline of this life is just the thing forthem as it is for me. It rather contradicts the kindergarten idea ofplay as a preparation for life. These busy men, forced to be busy, area thousand times more self-respecting than if left to lead the listlesslives that were theirs before their country called them. I wonder if,after all, Kipling isn't right, and that the hump and hoof and haunchof it all isn't obedience? Not slavish obedience, but obediencefounded on a knowledge of one's place and value in the pack?"

Jean, striving to follow Derry's point of view, found herselffloundering.

"I am glad you like it, but I don't see how you can. And you mustn'tsay that you've always been a Tin Soldier on a shelf. I won't have it.And you have played the game of life just as bravely as Tommy Tracy,only your problems were different—. And if you can't remember washdays you can remember other days—. But I like to have you tell meabout it, because I can see you, listening to Tommy and laughing athim. I adore your laugh, Derry, though I shouldn't be telling you,should I—? I have pasted the picture you sent me of you and Tommy inmy memory book and have written under it, 'When you and I were young,Tommy' and I've drawn a cloud of steam above Tommy, withwashboilers—and tubs—and cabbages and soap suds, and his mother'sface smiling in the midst of it all—. And in your cloud is yourmother smiling, too, with her little crown on her head, and gold spoonsfor a border—and a frosted cake with candles—and a mountain ofice-cream. Perhaps you have other memories, but I had to do the best Icould with my poor little rich boy—"

It was about this time that Jean's memory book! became chaotic. Mostof the things in it had to do with Derry, a bit of pine from a youngplume which Derry had sent her from the south—triangles cut from theletter paper on which he sometimes wrote—post-cards to say"Good-morning," telegrams to say "Good-night"—a service pin with itsone sacred star.

There were reminders, too, of the things which were happening acrossthe sea, a cartoon or two, a small reproduction of a terrible Raemaekerprint; verse, much of it—

They have taken your bells, O God,
The bells that hung in your towers,
That cried your grace in a lovely song,
And counted the praying hours!

The little birds flew away!
They will tell the clouds and the wind,
Till the uttermost places know
The sin that the Hun has sinned!

Jean thought a great deal about the Huns. She always called them that.She hated to think about them, but she had to. She couldn't pin thepages together, as it were, of her thoughts. And the Huns were worsethan the sharks that had frightened her in her little girl days. Oh,they were much worse than sharks, for the shark was only following aninstinct when it killed, and the Huns had worked out diabolically theirmurderous, monstrous plan.

In the days when she had argued with Hilda, she had been told of thepower and perfection of Prussian rule. "Everything is at loose ends inAmerica," had been Hilda's accusation.

"Well, what if it is?" Jean had flung back at her hotly. "Havingthings in place isn't the end and aim of happiness. Just because ahouse is swept and garnished isn't any sign that it is a blissfulhabitation. When I was a child I used to visit my two great-aunts inMaryland. I loved to go to Aunt Mary's, but I dreaded Aunt Anne's.And the reason was this. Everything in Aunt Anne's house went byclock-work, and everything was polished and scrubbed and dusted withinan inch of its life. When we arrived, we scraped our shoes before wekissed Aunt Anne, and when we departed, we felt that she literallyswept us out—. We had hours for everything, and nobody thought ofdoing as she pleased. It was always as Aunt Anne pleased, and themeals were always on time, and nobody was ever expected to be late, andif she was late she was scolded or punished; and nobody ever daredthrow a newspaper on the floor, or go out to the kitchen and makefudge, or pop corn by the sitting-room fire. Yet Aunt Anne was soefficient that her house-keeping was the admiration of the whole State.

"But we loved Aunt Mary's. She would come smiling down the stone walkto meet us, and she would leave the morning's work undone to wanderwith us in the fields or woods. And we had some of our meals under thetrees, and some of them in the house, and when we made taffy, and itstuck to things, Aunt Mary smiled some more and said it didn't matter.And we loved the freedom of our life, and we went to Aunt Mary's asoften as we could, and stayed away when we could from Aunt Anne's.

"And that's the way with America. It isn't perfect, it isn'tefficient, but it is a lovely place to live in, because in a sense wecan live as we please.

"Did you ever know a man who wanted to go back to slavery? As a slavehe was fed and clothed and kept by his master, with no thought ofresponsibility—. Yet it was freedom he wanted, even though he had togo hungry now and then for the sake of it—"

"I like law and order," Hilda said. "We don't always have it here."

"I'd rather be a gipsy on the road," had been Jean's passionatedeclaration, "and free, than a princess with a 'verboten' sign at allthe palace gates."

There were wisps of gauze, too, in her memory book, a red cross,drawings in which were caricatured some of the women who worked in thesurgical dressing rooms.

"Emily," Jean asked, as she showed one of the pictures to her friend,"do such women come because it's fashion or because they really feel—?"

"I fancy their motives are mixed," said Emily, "and you mustn't thinkbecause they wear high heels and fluff their hair out over their earsthat they haven't any hearts."

"No, I suppose not," Jean admitted, "but I wonder what they think theveils are for when they fluff out their hair.

"And their rings," she went on. "You see, when they all have on whiteaprons and veils you can't tell whether they are Judy O'Grady or theColonel's lady—so they load their hands with diamonds. As if thehands wouldn't tell the tale themselves. Why, Emily, if you and Hildawere hidden, all but your hands, the people would know the Colonel'slady from Judy O'Grady."

Emily smiled abstractedly, she was counting compresses. She stoppedlong enough to ask, "Is Hilda still in town?"

"Yes. I saw her yesterday on the other side of the street. I didn'tspeak, but some day when I get a good opportunity I am going to tellher what I think of her."

But when the opportunity came she did not say all that she had meant tosay!

She went over one morning to her father's house to get some paperswhich he had left in his desk. The house had been closed for weeks andthe hall, as she entered it, was cold with a chill that reached themarrow of her bones—it was dim with the half-gloom of drawn curtainsand closed doors. Even the rose-colored drawing-room as she stood onthe threshold held no radiance—it had the stiff and frozen look of asoulless body. Yet she remembered how it had throbbed and thrilled onthe night that Derry had come to her. The golden air had washed inwaves over her.

She shivered and went over to the window. She pulled up a curtain andlooked out upon the grayness of the street. The clouds were low, and astrong wind was blowing. Those who passed, bent to the wind. She wasslightly above the level of the street, and nobody looked up at her.She might have been a ghost in the ghostly house.

Well, she had to get the papers. She turned to face the gloom, and asshe turned she heard a sound in the room above her.

It was the rather startling sound of muffled steps. She dared not gointo the hall. She felt comparatively safe by the window—.If—anything came, she could open the window and call.

But she did not call, for it was Hilda who came presently onrubber-heels and stood in the door.

"I thought I heard some one," she said, calmly.

"How did you get in?" was Jean's abrupt demand.

"I had my key. I have never given it up."

"But this is no longer your home."

"It was never home," said Hilda, darkly. "It was never home. I livedhere with you and your father, but it was never home."

Jean, more than ever afraid of this woman, had a sudden sense ofsomething tragic in the fact of Hilda's homelessness.

"I don't quite see what you mean," she said, slowly.

"You couldn't see," Hilda told her, "and you will never see. Womenlike you don't."

"We didn't get on very well together," Jean said, almost timidly, "butthat was because we were different."

"It wasn't because we were different that we didn't get on," Hildasaid. "It was because you were afraid of me. You knew your fatherliked me."

With her usual frankness she spoke the truth as she saw it.

"I was not afraid," Jean faltered.

"You were. But we needn't talk about that. I am going to France."

"When?"

"As soon as I can get there. That's why I came here. To take awaysome things I wanted."

"Oh—"

"And one of the things I wanted was the picture of your father whichhung in your room. I have taken that. You can get more of them. Ican't. So I have taken it."

They faced each other, this shining child and this dark woman.

"But—but it is mine—Hilda."

"It is mine now, and if I were you, I shouldn't make a fuss about it."

"Hilda, how dare you!" Jean began in the old indignant way, andstopped. There was something so sinister about it all. She hated thethought that she and Hilda were alone in the empty house—

"Hilda, if you go to France, shall you see Daddy?"

"I shall try. I had a letter from him the other day. He told me notto come. But I am going. There is work to do, and I am going."

Jean had a stunned feeling, as if there was nothing left to say, as ifHilda were indeed a rock, and words would rebound from her hard surface.

"But after all, you didn't really care for Daddy—"

"What makes you say that?"

"You were going to marry the General."

"Well, I wanted a home. I wanted some of the things you had alwayshad. I'm not old, and I am tired of being a machine."

For just one moment her anger blazed, then she laughed with somethingof toleration.

"Oh, you'd never understand if I talked a year. So what's the use ofwasting breath?"

She said "Good-bye" after that, and Jean watched her go, hearing thepadded steps—until the front door shut and there was silence.

After that, with almost a sense of panic, she sped through the emptyrooms, finding the papers after a frantic search, and gaining thestreet with a sense of escape.

Yet even then, it was sometime before her heart beat normally, andalways after that when she thought of Hilda, it was against the chilland gloom of the empty house, with that look upon her face of darkresentment.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SINGING WOMAN

Somewhere in France, Drusilla had found the Captain. Or, rather, hehad found her. He had come upon her one rainy afternoon, and had notrecognized her in her muddy uniform, with a strap under her chin. Thenall at once he had heard her voice, crooning a song to a badly woundedboy whose head lay in her lap.

The Captain had stopped in his tracks. "Drusilla—"

The light in her eyes gave him his welcome, but she waved him away.

The boy died in her arms. When she joined her lover, she was muchmoved. "It is not my work to look after the wounded; I carry blanketsand things to refugees. But now and then—it happens. A shell burstin the street, and that poor lad—! He asked me to sing for him—yousee, I have been singing for them as they go through, and heremembered—"

He was holding both of her hands in his. "Dear woman, dear woman—"There were people all about them, but there were no conventions in wartimes, and nobody cared if he held her hands.

Her face was dirty, her hair wind-blown. She was muddy and without atrace of the smartness for which she had been famous. She was simply ahard-worked woman in clothes of masculine cut, yet never had she seemedso beautiful to her lover. He bent and kissed her in the market-place.He was an undemonstrative Englishman, but there was that in her eyeswhich carried him away from self-consciousness.

"I saw McKenzie in Paris," he said. "He told me that you were here."

"We came over together. Did you get my letter?"

"I have had no letters. But now that I have you, nothing matters."

"Really? Somehow I don't feel that I deserve it."

"Deserve what?"

"All that you are giving me. But I have liked to think of it. It hasbeen a prop to lean on—"

"Only that—?"

"A shield and a buckler, dearest, a cross held high—" Her breath camequickly.

* * * * * *

They sat side by side on the worn doorstep of a shattered building andtalked.

"I am in a shack—a baraque,—they call it," Drusilla told him, "withthree other women. We have fixed up one room a little better than theothers, and whenever the men come through the town some of them driftin and are warmed by our fire, and I sing to them; they call me 'TheSinging Woman.'"

She did not tell him how she had mothered the lads. She was not mucholder than some of them, but they had instinctively recognized thematernal quality of her interest in them. With all her beauty they hadturned to her for that which was in a sense spiritual.

Hating the war, Drusilla yet loved the work she had to do. There was,of course, the horror of it, but there was, too, the stimulus of livingin a world of realities. She wondered if she were the same girl whohad burned her red candles and had served her little suppers, safe andsound and far away from the stress of fighting.

She wondered, too, if women over there were still thinking of theirgowns, and men of their gold. Were they planning to go North in thesummer and South in the winter? Were they still care-free andcomfortable?

People over here were not comfortable, but how little they cared, andhow splendid they were. She had seen since she came such incrediblyheroic things—men as tender as women, women as brave as men—she hadseen human nature at its biggest and best.

"I have never been religious," she told the Captain, earnestly; "ourfamily is the kind which finds sufficient outlet in a cool intellectualconclusion that all's right with the world, and it doesn't make muchdifference what comes hereafter. You know the attitude? 'If there isfuture life, we shall be glad to explore, and if there isn't, we shallbe content to sleep!'

"But since I have been over here, I have carried a little prayer-book,and I've read things to the men, and when I have come to that part'Gladly to die—that we may rise again,' I have known that it is true,Captain—"

He laid his hand over hers. "May I have your prayer-book in exchangefor mine?" He was very serious. With all his heart he loved her, andnever more than at this moment when she had thrown aside all reservesand had let him see her soul.

She drew the little book from her pocket. It was bound in red leather,with a thin black cross on the cover. His own was in khaki.

"I want something else," he said, as he held the book in his hand.

"What?"

"This." He touched a lock of hair which lay against her cheek. "A bitof it—of you—"

A band of poilus—marching through the street, saw him cut it off.But they did not laugh. They had great respect for a thing likethat—and it happened every day—when men went away from their women.

They separated with a promise of perhaps a reunion in Paris, if hecould get leave and if she could be spared. Then she drove awaythrough the mud in her little car, and he went back to his men.

Thus they were swept apart by that tide of war which threatened tosubmerge the world.

Drusilla, arriving late at her baraque, made tea, and sat by aninfinitesimal stove.

She found herself alone, for the other women were away on variouserrands. She uncovered all the glory of her lovely hair, and in herlittle mirror surveyed pensively the ragged lock over her left ear.

A man like that, oh, a man like that. What more could a womanask—than love like that?

Yet even in the midst of her thought of him, came the feeling that shewas not predestined for happiness. She must go on riding over roughroads on her errands of mercy. Nothing must interfere with that, notlove or matters of personal preference—nothing.

She was very tired. But there was no time for rest. A half dozenkilted Highlanders hailed her through the open door and asked for asong. She gave them "Wee Hoose Amang the Heather—" standing on thestep. It was still raining, and they took with them a picture of agirl with glorious uncovered hair, and that cut tell-tale lock againsther cheek.

Drusilla watching them go, wondered if she would ever see them again,with their pert caps, the bare knees of them—the strong swing of theirbodies.

She stretched her arms above her head. "Oh, oh, I'm tired—"

She went in and poured another cup of tea. She left the door open.Indeed it always stood open that the room might shine its welcome.

Snatching forty winks, she waked to find a woman standing over her—atall woman in a blue cloak and bonnet, who held in her hand a drippingumbrella.

She felt that she still dreamed. "It can't be Hilda Merritt?"

"Yes, it is." Hilda set the umbrella in the wood box. "I knew youwere here."

"Who told you?"

"Dr. McKenzie."

"Oh, you are with him, then?"

"He won't have me. That's why I came to you."

"To me?"

"Yes. I want you to tell him not to—turn me away."

Drusilla showed her bewilderment. "But, surely nothing that I couldsay would have more weight with him than your own arguments."

"You are his kind. He'd listen. Things that you say count with him."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, I've offended him. And he won't forgive me. Not even for thesake of the work. And I'm a good nurse, Miss Gray. But he's as hardas nails. And—and he sent me away."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Drusilla said gently. Hilda was a dark figure oftragedy, as she sat there statuesquely in her blue cloak.

"You could make him see how foolish it is to refuse to have a goodworker; men may die whom I could save. He thinks that—those thingsdon't mean anything to me, that I am arguing from a personalstandpoint. He wouldn't think that of you."

"I'll do what I can, of course," Drusilla said slowly. She was notsure that she wanted to get into it, but she was sorry for Hilda.

"Won't you have a cup of tea," she said impulsively, "and take off yourcloak? I am afraid I haven't seemed a bit hospitable. I was sosurprised."

Hilda gave a little laugh. "I'm not used to such courtesies—so Ididn't miss it. But I should like the tea, and something to eat withit. I left Dr. McKenzie's hospital early this morning, and I haven'teaten since—I didn't want anything to eat—"

She watched Drusilla curiously as she set forth the food. "It mustseem strange to you to live in a room like this."

"I like it."

"But you have always had such an easy life, Miss Gray."

Drusilla smiled. "It may have looked easy to you. But I give you myword that keeping up with the social game is harder than this."

"You say that," Hilda told her crisply, "not because it's true, butbecause it sounds true. Do you mean to tell me that you like to bemuddy and dirty and live in a place like this?"

"Yes, I like it." Something flamed in the back Of Drusilla's eyes. "Ilike it because it means something, and the other didn't."

"Well, I don't like it," Hilda stated. "But nursing is all I am fitfor. I came over with a lot of other nurses, and they tell me at thehospital I am the best of the lot—and in war times you can't afford tomiss the experience. But then I am used to a hard life, and you arenot."

"Neither are the men in the trenches used to it. That's the standard Iapply to myself—for every hard thing I am doing, it is ten timesharder for them. I wish all the people at home could see how wonderfulthey are."

"That's Jean McKenzie's word—wonderful. Everything was wonderful, andnow she has married Derry Drake."

"Yes, she has married Derry," Drusilla stood staring into the littleround stove.

She roused herself presently. "I call them Babes in the Wood. Theyseem so young, and yet Derry isn't really young—it is only thatthere's such a radiant air about him."

Hilda's bitterness broke forth. "Why shouldn't he be radiant? Lifehas given him everything. It has given her everything; in a way it hasgiven you everything. I am the one who goes without—it looks as if Ishould always go without the things I want."

"Don't think that," Drusilla said in her pleasant fashion. "Nobody isset apart—and some day you will see it. Did you know that Derry maybe over now at any time, and that Jean is to stay with the General?"

"Yes," Hilda moved restlessly. There came to her a vision of the bighouse, of the shadowed room, of the room beyond, and of herself in atiara, with ermine on her cloak.

What a dream it had been, and she had waked to this!

She rose. "If Dr. McKenzie doesn't take me back he may be sorry. Willyou write to him?"

"I shall see him Saturday—in Paris. I have promised to dine with him.Captain Hewes is coming, too, if he can."

Hilda, going away in the rain, dwelt moodily on Drusilla'sopportunities. If only she, too, might dine in Paris with men like Dr.McKenzie and Captain Hewes. There were indeed, men who might ask herto dine with them, but not as Drusilla had been asked, as an equal andas a friend.

The way was long, the road was muddy. There was not much to looktowards at the end. It was not that she minded the dreadfulness ofsights and sounds—she had been too much in hospitals for that. Butshe hated the ugliness, the roughness, the grinding toil.

Yet had she been with Dr. McKenzie, she would have toiled gladly forhim. There would have been the sight of his crinkled copper head, thesound of his voice, his teasing laugh to sustain her. And now it wasDrusilla who would see him, who would sit with him at the table, whowould tempt his teasing laugh.

Well—if he didn't take her back, he would be sorry. There had been apatient in the hospital who in his delirium had whispered things. Whenhe had come to himself, she had told him calmly, "You are a spy." Hehad not whitened, but had measured her with a glance. "Help me, andyou shall see the Emperor. There will be nothing too good for you."

Drusilla, after Hilda's departure, sat by her little stove and thoughtit over. She divined something which did not appear on the surface.She was glad that she had promised to plead Hilda's cause. The woman'sface haunted her.

And now the other workers who shared Drusilla's shack returned,bringing news of many wounded and on the way. Then came the darknessof the night, the long line of ambulances, the ghastly procession thattrailed behind.

And all through the night Drusilla sang to men who rested for a momenton their weary way, out of the shadows came eager voices asking forthis song and that—then they would pass on, and she would throwherself down for a little sleep, to rouse again and lift her voice,while the other women poured the coffee.

She was hoarse in the morning, and white with fatigue, but when one ofthe women said, "You can't keep this up, Drusilla, you can't stand it,"she smiled. "They stand it is the trenches, and some of them are sotired."

She was as fresh as paint, however, on Saturday, when she met Dr.McKenzie in Paris. "I have had two hot baths, and all my clothes arestarched and ironed and fluted by an adorable Frenchwoman who openedher house for me," she announced as she sat down with him at a cornertable. "I never wore fluted things before, but you can't imagine howcivilizing it is after you've been letting yourself down."

The Doctor was tired, and he looked it. "No one has starched andfluted me."

"Poor man. I'm glad you ran away from it all for a minute with me.Captain Hewes thought he might be able to come. But I haven't heardfrom him, have you?"

"No. But he may blow in at any moment. It seems queer, doesn't it,Drusilla, that you and I should be over here with all the rest of themleft behind."

She hesitated, then brought it out without prelude. "Hilda came to seeme."

"To see you? Why?"

"She is broken-hearted because you won't let her work with you."

"I told her I could not. And she hasn't any heart to break."

"I wonder if you'd mind," Drusilla ventured, "telling me what's thematter."

"A rather squalid story," but he told it. "She wanted to marry theGeneral."

"Poor thing."

He glanced at her in surprise. "Then you defend her?"

"Oh, no—no. But think of having to marry to get the—the fleshpots,and to miss all of the real meanings. I talked to Hilda for a longtime, and somehow before she left she made me feel sorry. She wants somuch that she will never have. And she will grow hard and bitterbecause life isn't giving her all that she demands."

"Did she ask you to plead her cause?"

"Yes," frankly. "She feels that you ought to give her another chance."

He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "I don't want her. I'mafraid of her."

"Afraid?"

"She sees the worst that is in me, and brings it to the surface. Andwhen I protest, she laughs and insists that I don't know myself. ThatI am a sort of Dr. Jekyll, with the Mr. Hyde part of me asleep—"

"And you let her scare you like that?"

He nodded. "Every man has a weak spot, and mine is wanting the worldto think well of me."

"Think well of yourself. What would Jean say if she heard you talkinglike this?"

"Jean?" she was startled by the breaking up of his face into deep linesof trouble. "Do you know what she is doing, Drusilla? She is stayingin that great old house playing daughter to the General."

"Marion says the General's affection for her is touching—he doesn'twant her out of his sight."

"And because he doesn't want her out of his sight, she must stay aprisoner. I say that he hasn't done anything to deserve such devotion,Drusilla. He hasn't done anything to deserve it."

"You are jealous."

"No. It isn't that. Though I'll confess that something pulls at myheart when I think of it—. But I want her to be happy."

"I think she is happy. Life is giving her the hard things—but you andI would not be without the—hard things; we have reached out our handsfor them, because the world needs us. Are you going to deny yourdaughter that?"

"Oh, I suppose not. But I hate it. Women ought to behappy—care-free, not shut up in sick rooms or running around in therain."

"Oh, you men, how little you know what makes a woman happy." Shestopped, and half rose from her chair. "Captain Hewes is coming."

"I don't know that I am glad, Drusilla," the Doctor turned to surveythe beaming officer, "for now you won't have eyes or ears for me."

But she was glad.

While the Captain held her hand in his as if he would never let her go,she told him about being fluted and starched. "I don't look asdishevelled as I did the other day."

"You looked beautiful the other day," he assured her with fervor, "butthis is better, because you are rested and some of the sadness has goneout of your eyes."

Dr. McKenzie watched them enviously, "I realize," he reminded them,"that I am the fifth wheel, or any other superfluous thing, but youcan't get rid of me. I am homesick—somebody's got to cheer me up."

"We don't want to get rid of you," Drusilla told him, smiling.

But he knew that her loveliness was all for the Captain. She waslighted up by the presence of her betrothed, made exquisite, softer,more womanly. Love had come slowly to Drusilla, but it had come atlast.

When the Doctor left them, he was in a daze of loneliness. He wantedJean, he wanted sympathy, understanding, good-comradeship.

For just one little moment temptation assailed him. There was ofcourse, Hilda. She would bring with her the atmosphere of familiarthings which he craved. There would be the easy give and take ofspeech which was such a relief after his professional manner, therewould be his own teasing sense of how much she wanted, and of howlittle he had to give. There would be, too, the stimulus to his vanity.

A broken-hearted Hilda, Drusilla had said. There was somethingprovocative in the situation—elements of drama. Why not?

He thought about it that night when once more back at his work he andhis head nurse discussed a case of shell shock—a pitiful case of fear,loss of memory, complete prostration.

The nurse was a plain little thing, very competent, very quiet. Shewas, perhaps, no more competent than Hilda in the mechanics of herprofession, but she had qualities which Hilda lacked. She was not veryyoung, and there were younger nurses under her. Yet in spite of herplainness and quietness, she wielded an influence which was remarkable.The whole hospital force was feeling the effect of that influence. Itwas as if every nurse had in some rather high and special way dedicatedherself—as nuns might to the conventual life, or sisters of charity tothe service of the poor. There was indeed a heroic aspect to it, aspiritual aspect, and this plain little woman was setting the pace.

And Hilda, coming in, would spoil it all. Oh, he knew how she wouldspoil it. With her mocking laugh, her warped judgments, her skepticalpoint of view.

No, he did not want Hilda. The best in him did not want her, andplease God, he was giving his best to this cause. However he mightfail in other things, he would not fail in his high duty towards themen who came out of battle shattered and broken, holding up their handsto him for help.

"I am going to let Miss Shelby have the case," the plain little nursewas saying, "when he begins to come back. She will give him what heneeds. She is so strong and young, so sure of the eternal rightness ofthings—and she's got to make him sure."

The Doctor nodded. "Some of us are not sure—"

She agreed gravely. "But we are learning to be sure, aren't we, overhere? Don't you feel that all the things you have ever done are littlecompared to this? That men and women are better and bigger than youhave believed?"

"If anyone could make me feel it," he said, "it would be you."

When she had gone, he wrote letters.

He wrote to Jean—he wrote every day to Jean.

He wrote to Hilda.

"You are splendidly fitted for just the thing that you are doing. Mencome and go and you care for their wounds. But we have to care herefor more than men's bodies, we care for their minds and souls—we piecethem together, as it were. And we need women who believe that God's inhis Heaven. And you don't believe it, Hilda. I fancy that you see inevery man his particular devil, and like to lure it out for him to lookat—"

He stopped there. He could see her reading what he had written. Shewould laugh a little, and write back:

"Are you any better than I? If I am too black to herd with the whitesheep, what of you; aren't you tarred with the same brush—?"

He tore up the letter and sent a brief note. Why explain what he wasfeeling to Hilda? She was of those who would never know nor understand.

And he felt the need tonight of understanding—of sympathy.

And so he wrote to Emily.

CHAPTER XXV

WHITE VIOLETS

Bruce McKenzie's letter arriving in due time at the Toy Shop, foundEmily very busy. There were many women to be instructed how to dothings with gauze and muslin and cotton, so she tucked the letter inher apron pocket. But all day her mind went to it, as a feast to bedeferred until the time came to enjoy it.

In the afternoon Ulrich Stölle arrived, bearing the inevitable tissuepaper parcel.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asked.

"Thursday."

"There are always Thursdays. But this is a special Thursday."

"Is it?"

"And you ask me like that? It is a Thursday for valentines."

"Of course. But how could you expect me to remember? Nobody eversends me valentines."

"My father has sent you one." It was a heart-shaped basket of pinkroses; "but mine I couldn't bring. You must come and see it. Will youdine with us tonight?"

"Oh, I am so busy."

"You are not too busy for that. Let your little Jean take charge."

Jean, all in white with her white veil and red crosses was more thanever like a little nun. She was remote, too, like a nun, wrapped notin the contemplation of her religion, but of her love.

She still made toys, and the proceeds of the sale of Lovely Dreams hadbeen contributed by herself and Emily for Red Cross purposes. Therewere rows and rows of the fantastic creatures behind glass doors on theshelves, and for Valentine's Day Jean had carved and painted pale doveswhich carried in their beaks rosy hearts and golden arrows and whosewings were outspread—.

There were also on the shelves the white plush elephants which FranzStölle and his friends had made, and which were, too, being sold toswell the Red Cross fund.

Thus had the Toy Shop come into its own. "I have enough to live on,"Emily had said, "at least for a while, and I am taking no more chancesfor future living, than the men who give up everything to fight."

So enlisted in this cause of mercy as men had enlisted in the cause ofwar, Miss Emily led where others followed, and the old patriarch of allthe white elephants, who had been born in a country of blood and iron,looked down on women working to heal the wounds which his country hadmade.

"Let your little Jean look after things," Ulrich repeated.

"Do you mind, my dear?"

"Mind what, Emily—?"

"If I go with Mr. Stölle—to see his father about the—toys."

"Darling—no;" Jean kissed her. "I don't mind in the least, and theride will do you good."

"But you are not going to see my father about toys," Ulrich told her,twinkling, as he followed her to the back of the shop.

"Do you think I was going to tell her that?"

She put on her coat and hat and off she went with Ulrich, leaving stillunread in the pocket of the big apron the letter which Bruce McKenziehad written her.

All the way out Ulrich was rather silent. It was not, however, thesilence of moodiness or dullness, it was rather as if he wanted to hearher speak. It was, indeed, a responsive, stimulating silence, and sheglowed under his glance.

It seemed to her, as she talked, that these adventures with UlrichStölle were in every way the most splendid thing that had happened toher. They were always unexpected, and they were packed to the brimwith pleasure of a rare quality.

When they reached their destination, Ulrich took her at once to thehothouses. As they passed down the fragrant aisles, she found that allthe men and gone, their day's work over; only she and Ulrich were underthe great glass roof.

"Anton comes back later," Ulrich explained, "but at this hour thehouses are empty, and dinner will not be ready for as hour. We have itall to ourselves, Emily."

Her name, spoken with so much ease, without a sign ofself-consciousness, startled her. Her inquiring glance showed her thathe was utterly unaware that he had spoken it. Her breath came quickly.

The birds sang and the stream sang, and suddenly her heart began tosing.

You see it had been so many years since Emily had knownromance;—indeed, she had never known it—there had always been, in hermother's time, her sense of the proper thing, and her sense of duty,and her sense of making the best of things—and now for the first timein her life there was no make-believe. This was a world of realities,with Ulrich leading the way, his hands gathering flowers for her.

He stopped at last at the entrance of a sort of grotto where greatferns towered—at their feet was a bed of white violets.

"You see," he said, "I could not bring it. I came here this morning topick the violets—for you—to let them say, 'I love you'—"

Even the birds seemed silent, and the little stream!

"And suddenly they spoke to me, 'Let her see us here, where you have sooften thought of her. Tell her here that you love her—'

"How much I love you," and now she found her hands in his, "I cannottell you. It seems to me that the thought of you as my wife is soexquisite that I cannot believe it will ever come to pass. And I haveso little to offer you. Even my name is hated because it is a Germanname, and my old house is German, and my father—

"But my heart's blood is for America. You know that, and so I havedared to ask it, not that you will love me now, but that you may cometo think of loving me, so that some day you will care a little."

The birds were singing madly, the streams were shouting—Emily wastrembling. Nobody had ever wanted her like this—nobody had ever madeher feel so young and lovely and—wanted—. She had had a proposal ortwo, but there had been always the sense that she had been chosen forcertain staid and sensible qualities; there had been nothing in it ofred blood and rapture.

"If you should come to us, to me and my father, you would be a queen ona throne. If you could love me just a little in return—"

She could not answer, she just stood looking up at him, and suddenlyhis arms went around her. "Tell me, beloved."

An hour later they went in to his father, and after that Emily waslifted up on the wings of an enthusiasm which left her breathless, butbeatified. "I knew when I first saw you what we desired," said the oldman, "and my son knew. All that I have is yours both now andafterwards—"

Dinner was a candle-lighted feast, with heart-shaped ices at the end.

"How sure you were," Emily told her lover, smiling.

"I was not sure. But I set the stage for success. It was only thusthat I kept up my courage. There were so many chances that the curtainmight drop on darkness—," his hand went over hers. "If it had beenthat way, I should have let the ices melt and the violets die—."

After dinner they went over the house. "Why should we wait," Ulrichhad said, "you and I? There is nothing to wait for. Tell me what youwant changed in this old house, and then come to it, and to my heart."

It was, she found, such a funny old place. It had been furnished bymen, and by German men at that. There was heaviness and stuffiness,and all the bric-a-brac was fat and puffy, and all the pictures werehighly-colored, with the women in them blonde and buxom, and the menblond and bold—.

But Ulrich's room was not stuffy or heavy. The windows were wide open,and the walls were white, and the cover on the canopy bed was white,and there were two pictures, one of Lincoln and one of Washington, andthat was all.

"And when I have your picture, it will be perfect," he told her."Where I can see you when I wake, and pray to you before I go to sleep."

"But why," she probed daringly, "do you want my picture?"

"Because you are so—beautiful—"

It was not to be wondered that such worship went to Miss Emily's head.She slipped out of the dried sheath of the years which had saddened andaged her, and emerged lovely as a flower over which the winter haspassed and which blooms again.

"I don't want to change anything," Emily told her lover as they wentdownstairs, "at least not very much. I shall keep all of the lovelyold carved things—with the fat cupids."

As she lay awake that night, reviewing it all, she thought suddenly ofBruce McKenzie's letter in her apron pocket. The apron was in the ToyShop, and it was not therefore until the next morning that she read theletter.

In it Dr. McKenzie asked her to marry him.

"I should like to think that when I come back, you will be waiting forme, Emily. I am a very lonely man. I want someone who will sympathizeand understand. I want someone who will love Jean, and who will holdme to the best that is in me, and you can do that, Emily; you havealways done it."

It was a rather touching letter, and she felt its appeal strongly.Indeed, so stern was her sense of self-sacrifice, that she had analmost guilty feeling when she thought of Ulrich. If he had not comeinto her life at the psychological moment, she might have given herselfto Bruce McKenzie.

But the letter had come too late. Oh, how glad she was that she hadleft it in her apron pocket!

She answered it that night.

"I am going to be very frank with you, Bruce, because in being frankwith you I shall be frank with myself. If Ulrich Stölle had not comeinto my life, I should probably have thought I cared for you. Even nowwhen I am saying 'no,' I realize that your charm has always held me,and that the prospect of a future by your pleasant fireside holds manyattractions. But since you left Washington, something has happenedwhich I never expected, and all of my preconceived ideas of myself havebeen overturned. Bruce, I am no longer the Emily you have known—alittle staid, gray-haired, with pretty hands, but with nothing elsevery pretty about her; a lady who would, perhaps, fill gracefully, aposition for which her aristocratic nose fits her. I am no longer theEmily of the Toy Shop, wearing spectacles on a black ribbon, eating herlunches wherever she can get them. No, I am an Emily who is young andbeautiful, a sort of fairy-tale Princess, an Emily who, if she wishes,shall sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, but who doesn't wish itbecause she hates to sew, and would much rather work in hersilver-bell-and-co*ckle shell garden—oh, such a wonderful garden as itis!

"And I am all this, Bruce, I am young and beautiful and all the rest,because I am seeing myself through the eyes of my lover.

"He is Ulrich Stölle, as I have said, and you mustn't think because hisname is German that he is to be cast into outer darkness. He is asAmerican as you with your Scotch blood, or as I with my English blood.And he is as loyal as any of us. He is too old to be accepted forservice, but he is giving time and money to the cause.

"And he loves me rapturously, radiantly, romantically. He doesn't wantme as a cushion for his tired head, he doesn't want me because hethinks it would be an act of altruism to provide a haven for me in myold age, he wants me because he thinks I am the most remarkable womanin the whole wide world, and that he is the most fortunate man to havewon me.

"And you don't feel that way about it, Bruce. You know that I am notbeautiful, there is no glamour in your love for me. You know that I amnot wonderful, or a fairy Princess—. And you are right and he iswrong. But it is his wrongness which makes me love him. Because everywoman wants to be beautiful to her lover, and to feel that she is muchdesired.

"You will ask why I am telling you all this. Well, there was onesentence in your letter which called it forth. You say that you wantme because I will hold you to the best that is in you.

"Oh, Bruce, what would you gain if I held you? Wouldn't there bemoments when in spite of me you would swing back to women like Hilda?You are big and fine, but you are spoiled by feminine worship—it is atemptation which assails clergymen and doctors—who have, as it were,many women at their feet.

"Does that sound harsh? I don't mean it that way. I only want you tocome into your own. And if you ever marry I want you to find somewoman you can love as you loved your wife, someone who will touch yourimagination, set you on fire with dreams, and I could never do it.

"Yet even as I finish this letter, I am tempted to tear it up and tellyou only of my real appreciation of the honor you have conferred uponme in asking me to be your wife. I know that you are offering me morein many ways than Ulrich Stölle. I don't like his name, becausesomething rises up in me against Teuton blood and Teuton nomenclature.But he loves me, and you do not, and because of his love for me andmine for him, everything else seems too small to consider.

"Oh, you'd laugh at his house, Bruce, but I love even the fat angelsthat are carved on everything from the mahogany chests to the souptureens. It is all like some old fairy-tale. I shall make fewchanges; it seems such a perfect setting for Ulrich and his busy oldgnome of a father.

"When you get this, pray for my happiness. Oh, I do want to be happy.I have made the best of things, but there has been much more of graythan rose-color, and now as I turn my face to the setting sun, I amseeing—-loveliness and light—"

She read it over and sealed it and sent it away. It was several weeksbefore it reached Doctor McKenzie. He was very busy, for the springdrive of the Germans had begun, and shattered men were coming to himfaster than he could handle them. But he found time at last to readit, and when he laid it down he sat quite still from the shock of it.

And the next time he saw Drusilla he said to her, "Emily Bridges isgoing to be married, and she is not going to marry me."

"I am glad of it," Drusilla told him.

"My dear girl, why?"

"Because you don't love her, and you never did."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE HOPE OF THE WORLD

The great spring drive of the Germans brought headlines to the paperswhich men and women in America read with dread, and scoffed at whenthey talked it over.

"They'll never get to Paris," were the words on their lips, but intheir hearts they were asking, "Will they—?"

Easter came at the end of March, and Good Friday found Jean workingvery early in the morning on fawn-colored rabbits with yellow ears.She worked in her bedroom because it was warmed by a feeble wood fire,and Teddy came up to watch her.

"The yellow in their ears is the sun shining through," Jean told him."We used to see them in the country on the path in front of the house,and the light from the west made their ears look like tiny electricbulbs."

Margaret-Mary entranced by one small bunny with a splash of white for acotton tail, sang, "Pitty sing, pitty sing."

"They don't weally lay eggs, do they?" Teddy ventured.

"I wouldn't ask such questions if I were you, Teddy."

"Why not?"

"Because you might find out that they didn't lay eggs, and then you'dfeel terribly disappointed."

"Well, isn't it better to know?"

Jean shook her head. "I'm not sure—it's nice to think that they dolay eggs—blue ones and red ones and those lovely purple ones, isn'tit?"

"Yes."

"And if they don't lay them, who does?"

"Hens," said Teddy, rather unexpectedly, "and the rab-yits steal them."

"Who told you that?"

"Hodgson. And she says that she ties them up in rags and the colorscome off on the eggs."

"Well, I wouldn't listen to Hodgson."

"Why not? I like to listen."

"Because she hasn't any imagination."

"What's 'magination?"

They were getting in very deep. Jean gave it up. "Ask your mother,Teddy."

So Teddy sought his unfailing source of information. "What's'magination, Mother."

"It is seeing things, Teddy, with your mind instead of your eyes. WhenI tell you about the poor little children in France who haven't anyfood or any clothes except what the Red Cross gives them, you don'treally see them with your eyes, but your mind sees them, and their coldlittle hands, and their sad little faces—"

"Yes." He considered that for a while, then swept on to the thingsover which his childish brain puzzled.

"Mother, if the Germans get to Paris what will happen?"

He saw the horror in her face.

"Do you hate the Germans, Mother?"

"My darling, don't ask me."

After he had gone downstairs, Margaret got out her prayer-book, andread the prayers for the day.

"Oh, merciful God, who hast made all men and hatest nothing that thouhast made, nor desirest the death of a sinner, but rather that heshould be converted and live, have mercy on all Jews, Turks, infidelsand heretics, and take from them all ignorance, hardness of heart, andcontempt of Thy word, and so fetch them home, blessed Lord, to Thyflock, that they may be saved—"

She shut the book. No, she could not go on. She did not love herenemies. She was not in the least sure that she wanted the Germans tobe saved!

On Easter morning, however, Teddy was instructed to pray for hisenemies. "We mustn't have hate in our hearts."

"Why mustn't we, Mother?"

"Well, Father wouldn't want it. We hate the evil they do, but we mustpray that they will be shown their wickedness and repent."

"If they re-pyent will they stop fighting?"

"My dearest, yes."

"How would they stop?"

Jean, who was ready for church and waiting, warned, "You'd better nottry to give an answer to that, Margaret, there isn't any."

Teddy ignored her. "How would they stop, Mother?"

"Well, they'd just stop, dear—"

"Would they say they were sorry?"

Would William of Prussia ever be sorry?

"Can God stop it, Mother?"

Margaret wrenched her mind away from the picture which his words hadpainted for her, the Kaiser on his knees! Miserere mei, Deus—

With quick breath, "Yes, dear."

"Then why doesn't He stop it, Mother?"

Why? Why? Why? Older voices were asking that question in agony.

"He will do it in His own good time, dearest. Perhaps the world has alesson to learn."

With Teddy walking ahead with nurse, Jean proclaimed to Margaret, "Ishan't pray for them."

"I know how you feel."

"Shall you?"

"Yes," desperately, "I must."

"Why must you?"

"Because of—Win," Margaret said simply. In her widow's black, withher veil giving her height and dignity, she had never been morebeautiful. "Because of Win, I must. There are wives in Germany whosuffer as I suffer—who are not to blame. There are children, like mychildren, asking the same questions—. This drive has seemed to melike the slaughter of sheep, with a great Wolf behind them, a Wolfwithout mercy, sending them down to destruction, to—death—"

"And the Wolf—?"

Margaret raised her hand and let it drop, "God knows."

And now soldiers were being rushed overseas. Trains swept across theland loaded with men who gazed wistfully at the peaceful towns as theypassed through, or chafed impotently when, imprisoned in day coaches,they were side-tracked outside of great cities.

And on the battle line those droves and droves of gray sheep weredriven down and down—to death—by the Wolf.

The war was coming closer to America. A look of care settled on thefaces of men and women who had, hitherto, taken things lightly.Fathers, who had been very sure that the war would end before theirsons should go to France, faced the fact that the end was not in sight,and that the war would take its toll of the youth of America. Mothers,who had not been sure of anything, but had hidden their fears in theirhearts, stopped reading the daily papers. Wives, who had looked uponthe camp experiences of their husbands as a rather great adventure,knew now that there might be a greater adventure with a Dark Angel.The tram-sheds in great cities were crowded with anxious relatives whowatched the troops go through, clutching at the hope of a last glimpseof a beloved face, a few precious moments in which to say farewell.

Yes, the war was coming near!

Derry wrote that he might go at any moment, but hoped for a shortfurlough. It was on this hope that Jean lived. She worked tirelessly,making the much-needed surgical dressings. When Emily tried to get herto rest, Jean would shake her head.

"Darling, I must. They are bringing the wounded over."

"But you mustn't get too tired."

"I want to be tired. So that I can sleep."

She was finding it hard to sleep. Often she rose and wrote in hermemory book, which was becoming in a sense a diary because she confidedto its pages the things she dared not say to Derry. Some day, perhaps,she might show him what she had written. But that would be when thewar was over, and Derry had come back safe and sound. Until then shewould have to smile in her letters, and she did not always feel likesmiling!

But that was what Derry called them, "Smiling letters!"

"They smile up at me every morning, Jean."

So she wrote to him bravely, cheerfully, of her busy days, of how shemissed him, of her love and longing, but not a word did she say of herworld as it really was.

But there was no laughter in the things she said to the old memory book.

"I don't like big houses—not houses like this, with grinning porcelainChinese gods at every turn of the hall, and gold dragons on thebed-posts. There are six of us here besides the servants, yet we arelike dwarfs in a giant palace. Perhaps if we had the usual fires itwouldn't seem quite so forlorn. But the china in the cabinets is socold—and the ceilings are so high—and the marble floors—.

"Perhaps if everyone were happy it would be different. But only Emilyis happy. And I don't see how she can be. She is going to marry aHun! Of course, he isn't really, and he'd be a darling dear if itweren't for his German name, and his German blood, and the Germanthings he has in his house. But Emily says she loves his house, thatit speaks to her of a different Germany—of the sweet old gay Germanythat waltzed and sang and loved simple things. It seems so funny tothink of Emily in love—she's so much older than people are usuallywhen they are engaged and married.

"But Emily is the only happy one, except the children, and I sometimesthink that even they have the shadow on them of the dreadful thingsthat are happening. Margaret-Mary tries to knit, and tires her stubbylittle fingers with the big needles, and Teddy, poor chap, seems tofeel that he must be the man of the family and take his father's place,and he is pathetically careful of his mother.

"I wonder if Margaret feels as I do about it all? She is so sweet andsmiling—and yet I know how her heart weeps, and I know how she longsfor her own house and her own hearth and her own husband—

"Oh, when my Derry comes back safe and sound—and he will come backsafe, I shall say it over and over to myself until I make it true—whenDerry comes back, we'll build a cottage, with windows that look out ontrees and a garden—and there'll be cozy little rooms, and we'll takePolly Ann and Muffin—and live happy ever after—.

"I wonder how father stands it to be always with people who are sick?I never knew what it meant until now. The General is an old dear—butsometimes when I sit in that queer room of his with its lacquer andgold and see him in his gorgeous dressing gown, I feel afraid. It israther dreadful to think that he was once young and strong like Derry,and that he will never be young and strong again.

"Oh, I want the war to end—I want Derry, and sunshine and well people.It seems a hundred years since I did anything just for the fun of doingit. It seems a million years since Daddy and I drove downtown togetherand drank chocolate sodas—

"But then nobody is drinking chocolate sodas—at least no one is doingit light-heartedly. You can't be light-hearted when the person youlove best in the world is going to war. You can be brave, and you canmake your lips laugh, but you can't make your heart laugh—youcan't—you can't—.

"I talk a great deal to the women who come to Emily's Toy Shop. And Iam finding out that some of those that seem fluffy-minded are reallyvery much in earnest. There is one little blonde, who always wearswhite silk and chiffon, she looks as if she had just stepped from thestage. And at first I simply scorned her. I felt that she would bethe kind to leave ravellings in her wipes, and things like that. Butshe doesn't leave a ravelling. She works slowly, but she does her workwell—. But now and then her hands tremble and the tears fall; and theother day I went and sat down beside her and I found out that herhusband is flying in France, and that her two brothers are at thefront—. And one of them is among the missing; he may be a prisonerand he may be dead—. And she is trying to do her bit and be brave.And now I don't care if she does wear her earlocks outside of her veiland load her hands with diamonds—she's a dear—-and a darling. Butshe's scared just as I am—and as Mary Connolly is, and as all thewomen are, though they don't show it—. I wonder if Joan of Arc wasafraid—in her heart as the rest of us are? Perhaps she wasn't,because she was in the thick of it herself, and we aren't. Perhaps ifwe were where we could see it and have the excitement of it all, weshould lose our fear.

"But when women tell me that the women have the worst of it—that theymust sit at home and weep and wait, I don't believe it. We suffer—ofcourse, and there's the thought of it all like a bad dream, and when welove our loved ones—it is heartbreak. But the men suffer, daily, inall the little things. The thirst and the vermin, and the cold andwet—and the noise—and the frightfulness. And they grow tired andhungry and homesick,—and death is on every side of them, and horror—.Some of the women who come to the shop sentimentalize a lot. One womanrecited, 'Break, break, break—, the other day, and the rest of themcried into the gauze, cried for themselves, if you please; 'For menmust work and women must weep.' And then my little blonde told themwhat she thought of them. Her name is 'Maisie,' wouldn't you know agirl like that would be called 'Maisie'?

"'If you think,' she said, 'that you suffer—what in God's name willyou think before the war is over? It hasn't touched you. You won'tknow what suffering means until your men begin to come home. You talkabout hardships; not one of you has gone hungry yet—and the men overthere may be cut off at any moment from food supplies, and they arealways at the mercy of the camp cooks, who may or may not give themthings that they can eat. And they lie out under the stars with theirwounds, and if any of you has a finger ache, you go to bed with hotwater bottles and are coddled and cared for. But our boys,—thereisn't anyone to coddle them—they have to stick it out. And we've gotto stick it out—and not be sorry for ourselves. Oh, why should we besorry for ourselves!' The tears were streaming down her cheeks whenshe finished, and a gray-haired woman who had wept with the others gotup and came over to her. 'My dear,' she said, 'I shall never pitymyself again. My two sons are over there, and I've been thinking howmuch I have given. But they have given their young lives, theirfutures—their bodies, to be broken—' And then standing right in themiddle of the Toy Shop that mother prayed for her sons, and for thesons of other women, and for the husbands and lovers, and that thewomen might be brave.

"Oh, it was wonderful—as she stood there like a white-veiledprophetess, praying.

"Yet a year ago she would have died rather than pray in public. She isa conservative, aristocratic woman, the kind that doesn't wear rings ortry to be picturesque—and she has always kept her feelings to herself,and said her prayers to herself—or in church, but never in all herlife has she been so fine as she was the other day praying in the ToyShop.

"Yet in a way I am sorry for myself. Not for me as I am to-day, butfor the Jean of Yesterday, who thought that patriotism was rememberingBunker Hill!

"Of course in a way it is that—for Bunker Hill and Lexington andValley Forge are a part of us because our grandfathers were there, andwhat they felt and did is a part of our feeling and doing.

"I have always thought of those old days as a sort of picture—theembattled farmers in their shirt-sleeves and with their hair blowing,and the Midnight Ride, and the lantern in the old North Church—and theSpirit of '76. And it was the same with the Civil War; there wasalways the vision of cavalry sweeping up and down slopes as they do inthe movies, and of the bugles calling, and bands playing 'Marchingthrough Georgia' or 'Dixie' as the case might be—and flagsflying—isn't it glorious to think that the men in gray are singingto-day, 'The Star Spangled Banner' with the rest of us?

"But my thoughts never had anything to do with money, though I supposepeople gave it then, as they are giving now. But you can't paintpictures of men and women making out checks, and children puttingthrift stamps in little books, so I suppose that in future the heroesand heroines of the emptied pocket-books will go down unsung—.

"It isn't a bit picturesque to give until it hurts, but it helps a lot.I saw Sarah Bernhardt the other day in a wonderful little play whereshe's a French boy, who dies in the end—and she dies, exquisitely,with the flag of France in her arms—the faded, lovely flag—I shallnever forget. The tears ran down my cheeks so that I couldn't see, buther voice, so faint and clear, still rings in my ears—

"If she had died clutching a Liberty Bond or wearing a Red Crossbutton, it would have seemed like burlesque. Yet there are men andwomen who are going without bread and butter to buy Liberty Bonds, andwho are buying them not as a safe investment, as rich men buy, butbecause the boys need the money. And there ought to be poems writtenand statues erected to commemorate some of the sacrifices for the sakeof the Red Cross.

"Yet I think that, in a way, we have not emphasized enough thepicturesque quality of this war, not on this side. They do it inFrance—they worship their great flyers, their great generals, theircrack regiments, everything has a personality, they are tender withtheir shattered cathedrals as if something human had been hurt, and theresult is a quickening on the part of every individual, a flamingpatriotism which as yet we have not felt. We don't worship anything,we don't all of us know the words of 'The Star Spangled Banner'; fancya Frenchman not knowing the words of the 'Marseillaise' or anEnglishman forgetting 'God Save the King.' We don't shout and singenough, we don't cry enough, we don't feel enough—and that's all thereis to it. If we were hot for the triumph of democracy, there would beno chance of victory for the Hun. Perhaps as the war comes nearer, weshall feel more, and every day it is coming nearer—"

It was very near, indeed. Thousands of those gray sheep were lyingdead on the plains of Picardy—the Allies fought with their backs tothe wall—Americans who had swaggered, secure in the prowess of UncleSam, swaggered no longer, and pondered on the parable of the Wise andFoolish Virgins.

Slowly the nation waked to what was before it. In America now lay thehope of the world. The Wolf must be trapped, the sheep saved in spiteof themselves, those poor sheep, driven blindly to slaughter.

The General was not quite sure that they were sheep, or that they werebeing driven. He held, rather, that they knew what they wereabout—and were not to be pitied.

Teddy, considering this gravely, went back to previous meditations, andasked if he prayed for his enemies.

"Bless my soul," said the old gentleman, "why should I?"

"Well, Mother says we must, and then some day they'll stop and say theyare sorry—"

The General chuckled, "Your mother is optimistic."

"What's 'nopt'mistic?"

"It means always believing that nice things will happen."

"Don't you believe that nice things will happen?"

"Sometimes—"

"Don't you believe that the war will stop?"

"Not until we've thrown the full force of our fighting men into it—atwhat a sacrifice."

"Can't God make it stop?"

"He can, but He won't, not if He's a God of justice," said this staunchold patriot, "until America has brought them to their knees—"

"Will they say they are sorry then?"

"It won't make very much difference what they say—"

But Teddy, having been brought up to understand the things which belongto an officer and a gentleman, had his own ideas on the subject."Well, I should think they'd ought to say they were sorry—."

CHAPTER XXVII

MARCHING FEET

The end of April brought much rain; torrents swept down the smoothstreets, and the beauty of the carefully kept flower beds in the parkswas blurred by the wet.

The General, limping from window to window, chafed. He wanted to getout, to go over the hills and far away; with the coming of the springthe wander-hunger gripped him, and with this restless mood upon him hestormed at Bronson.

"It's a dog's life."

"Yes, sir," said Bronson, dutifully.

"It is dead lonesome, Bronson, and I can't keep Jean tied here all ofthe time. She is looking pale, don't you think she is looking pale?"

"Yes, sir. I think she misses Mr. Derry."

"Well, she'll miss him a lot more before she gets him back," grimly."He'll be going over soon—"

"Yes, sir."

"I wish I were going," the old man was wistful. "Think of it, Bronson,to be over there—in the thick of it, playing the game, instead ofrotting here—"

It was, of course, the soldier's point of view. Bronson, beinghopelessly civilian, did his best to rise to what was expected of him."You like it then, sir?"

"Like it? It is the only life. We've lost something since men took upthe game of business in place of the game of fighting."

"But you see, sir, there's no blood—in business." Bronson tried toput it delicately.

"Isn't there? Why, more men are killed in accidents in factories thanare killed in war—murdered by money-greedy employers."

"Oh, sir, not quite that."

"Yes, quite," was the irascible response. "You don't know what you aretalking about, Bronson. Read statistics and find out."

"Yes, sir. Will you have your lunch up now, sir?"

"I'll get it over and then you can order the car for me."

"But the rain—?"

"I like rain. I'm not sugar or salt."

Bronson, much perturbed, called up Jean. "The General's going out."

"Oh, but he mustn't, Bronson."

"I can't say 'mustn't' to him, Miss," Bronson reported dismally."You'd better see what you can do—"

But when Jean arrived, the General was gone!

"We'll drive out through the country," the old man had told hischauffeur, and had settled back among his cushions, his cane by hisside, his foot up on the opposite seat to relieve him of the weight.

And it was as he rode that he began to have a strange feeling aboutthat foot which no longer walked or bore him lightly.

How he had marched in those bygone days! He remembered the first timehe had tried to keep step with his fellows. The tune had been YankeeDoodle—with a fife and drum—and he was a raw young recruit in hisqueer blue uniform and visored cap—.

And how eager his feet had been, how strongly they had borne him,spurning the dust of the road—as they would bear him no more—.

There were men who envied him as he swept past them in the rain, menwho felt that he had more than his share of wealth and ease, yet hewould have made a glad exchange for the feet which took them where theywilled.

He came at last to one of his old haunts, a small stone house on theedge of the Canal. From its wide porch he had often watched the slowboats go by, with men and women and children living in worlds boundedby weather-beaten decks. To-day in the rain there was a blur of lilacbushes along the tow path, but no boats were in sight; the Canal was aruffled gray sheet in the April wind.

Lounging in the low-ceiled front room of the stone house were men ofthe type with whom he had once foregathered—men not of his class orkind, but interesting because of their very differences—humanderelicts who had welcomed him.

But now, for the first time he was not one of them. They eyed hiselegances with suspicion—his fur coat, his gloves, his hat—the manwhose limousine stood in front of the door was not one of them; theymight beg of him, but they would never call him "Brother."

So, because his feet no longer carried him, and he must ride, he foundhimself cast out, as it were, by outcasts.

He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them money, made a joke or twoas he limped among them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wistfully,seeing for the first time their sordidness, seeing what he himself hadbeen, more sordid than any, because of his greater opportunities.

Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. If all the world werelike these men, what kind of world would it be?

"Why aren't you fellows fighting?" he asked suddenly.

They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should they fight? One of themwept over it, called himself too old—.

But there were young men among them. "For God's sake get out ofthis—let me help you get out." The General stood up, leaned on hiscane. "Look here, I've done a lot of things in my time—things likethis—" his arm swept out towards the table, "and now I've only onegood foot—the other will never be alive again. But you young chaps,you've got two good feet—to march. Do you know what that means, tomarch? Left, right, left, right and step out bravely—. Yankee Doodleand your heads up, flags flying? And you sit here like this?"

Two of the men had risen, young and strong. The General's canepounded—he had their eyes! "Left, right, left, right—all over theworld men are marching, and you sit here—"

The years seemed to have dropped from him. His voice rang with a firethat had once drawn men after him. He had led a charge at Gettysburg,and his men had followed!

And these two men would follow him. He saw the dawn of their resolvein their faces. "There's fine stuff in both of you," he said, "and thecountry needs you. Isn't it better to fight than to sit here? Getinto my car and I'll take you down."

"Aw, what's eatin' you," one of the older men growled. "What game'sthis? Recruitin'?"

But the young men asked no questions. They came—glad to come. Rousedout of a lethargy which had bound them. Waked by a ringing old voice.

The General was rather quiet when he reached home. Jean and Bronson,who had suffered torments, watched him with concerned eyes. And, as ifhe divined it, he laid his hand over Jean's. "I did a good day's work,my dear. I got two men for the Army, and I'm going to get more—"

And he did get more. He went not only in the rain, but in the warmthof the sun, when the old fruit trees bloomed along the tow path, andthe backs of the mules were shining black, and the women came out ondeck with their washing.

And always he spoke to the men of marching feet—. Now and then hesang for them in that thin old voice whose thinness was so overlaid bythe passion of his patriotism that those who listened found no flaw init.

"He has sounded forth the trumpet that has never called retreat,
He is sifting forth the hearts of men before his Judgment seat,
O be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet,
Our God is marching on—"

There was no faltering now, no fumbled words. With head up,singing—"Be jubilant, my feet—"

Sometimes he took Jean with him, but not always. "There are placesthat I don't like to have you go, my dear, but those are where I get mymen."

At other times when he came out to where she sat in the car there wouldflash before his eyes the vision of his wife's face, as she, too, hadonce sat there, waiting—

Sometimes he took the children, and rode with them on a slow-movingbarge from one lock to another, with the limousine meeting them at theend.

So he travelled the old paths, innocently, as he might have travelledthem throughout the years.

Yet if he thought of those difficult years, he said never a word. Hefelt, perhaps, that there was nothing to say. He took to himself nocredit for the things he was doing. If age and infirmity had broughtto him a realization of all that he had missed, he was surely not to bepraised for doing that which was, obviously, his duty.

Yet it gave him a new zest for life, and left Jean freer than she hadbeen before. It left her, too, without the fear of him, which hadrobbed their relationship of all sense of security.

"You see, I never knew," she wrote in her memory book, "what mighthappen. I had visions of myself going after him in the night as Derryhad gone and his mother. I used to dream about it, and dread it."

Yet she had said nothing of her dread to Derry in her smiling letters,and as men think of women, he had thought of her in the sick room as aguardian angel, shining and serene.

And now, faint and far came to the men in the cantonments the sound ofbattles across the sea. The bugles calling them each morning seemed tosay, "Soon, soon, you will go, you will go, you will go—"

To Derry, listening, it seemed the echo of the fairy trumpets,"Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt, you will go, you will go, you willgo—"

It was strange how the thought of it drew him, drew him as even thethoughts of Jean his bride did not draw—. He remembered that yearsago he had smiled with a tinge of tolerant sophistication over the oldlines:

"I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more—"

Yet here it was, a truth in his own life. A woman meaning more to himthan she could ever have meant in times of peace, because he could goforth to fight for her, his life at stake, for her. It was for her,and for other women that his sword was unsheathed.

"If only they could understand it," he wrote to Jean. "You haven't anyidea what rotten letters some of the women write. Blaming the men forgoing over seas. Blaming them for going into it at all. Taking it asa personal offense that their lovers have left them. 'If you had lovedme, you couldn't have left me,' was the way one woman put it, and Ifound a poor fellow mooning over it and asked him what was the matter.'It isn't a question of what we want to do, it is a question of whatwe've got to do, if we call ourselves men,' he said. But she couldn'tsee that, she was measuring her emotions by an inch rule.

"But, thank God, most of the women are the real thing—true as steeland brave. And it is those women that the men worship. It is amasculine trait to want to be a sort of hero in the eyes of the womanyou love. When she doesn't look at it that way, your plumes droop!"

And now the bugles rang with a clearer note—not, "You will go, youwill go—" but, "Do not wait, do not wait, do not wait."

The cry from abroad was Macedonian. "Come over and help us!" It wasto America that the ghosts of those fighting hordes appealed.

"Take up our quarrel with the foe,
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch—be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders' field—"

Gradually there had grown up in the hearts of simple men a flamingresponse to that sacred charge. Men whose dreams had never reachedbeyond a day's frivolity, found springing up in their souls a desire todo some deed to match that of the other fellow who slept "in Flandersfield."

"To you from falling hands we throw the torch—be yours to hold ithigh—," the little man who had measured cloth behind a counter, theboy who had sold papers on the streets, the bank clerk who had bentover his books, the stenographer who had been bound to the wheel ofeverlasting dictation, were lighted by the radiance of that vision, "tohold it high—."

"Gee, I never used to think," said Tommy Tracy, "that I might have achance to do a stunt like that."

"Like what?" Derry asked.

Tommy found it a thing rather hard to express. "Well, when you've beenjust a common sort of chap, to die—for the other fellow—"

So men's bodies grew and their muscles hardened. But their souls grew,too, expanding to the breadth and height of the things which werewaiting for them to do across the sea.

And one morning Derry was granted a furlough, and started home. Hesent no word ahead of him. He wanted to come upon them unawares. Tocatch the light that would be on Jean's face when she looked up and sawhim.

There was rain and more rain when at last he arrived in Washington.The trees as his taxi traversed the wide avenues showed clear green,melting into vistas of amethyst and gray. The parks as he passed werestarred with the bright yellow and pinks of flowering shrubs.Washington, in spite of the rain, was as lovely as a woman whose colorblooms behind a veil.

He came into the great house unannounced, having his key with him. TheGeneral was out for a ride, the children with him, Margaret and Emilyand Jean away, the servants in the back of the house.

Derry, going up the stairs, two steps at a time, stopped on the landingwith head uncovered to greet his mother.

Oh, lovely painted lady, is this the little white-faced lad you loved,the big bronzed man, fresh from hardships, strong in the sense of thething he has to do?

No promise made to you could hold him now. He has weighed your smalldemands is the balance with the world's great need.

He did not tarry long. Straight as an eagle to its mate, he sweptthrough the hall and knocked at the door of Jean's room. There was noresponse. He knocked again, turned the handle, entered, and found theroom empty. The tin soldier on the shelf shouted, "Welcome,welcome—comrade," but Derry had no ears to hear. Everywhere weresigns of Jean; her fat memory book open on her desk, the ivory and goldappointments of her dressing table, her pink slippers, her prayerbook—his own picture with flowers in front of it as before a shrine.

"My dear, my darling," his heart said when he saw that. What, afterall, was he that she should worship him?

Impatient, he rang for Bronson, and the old man came—bewildered,hurried, joyful. "It's a great surprise, sir, but it's good to seeyou."

"It's good to see you, Bronson. Where's Miss Jean?"

"At Miss Emily's shop, sir."

"As late as this?"

"Sometimes later. She tries to get home in time for dinner."

"Where's Dad?"

"Driving with the children, and the ladies are out on war work."

A year ago women had played bridge at this hour in the afternoon, butthere was no playing now.

"Don't tell Dad that I am here. I'll come back presently with Mrs.Drake."

And now down the hall came an old gray dog, wild with delight,outracing Polly Ann, who thought it was a play and leaped afterhim—Muffin had found his master!

But Derry left Muffin, left Bronson, left Polly Ana, a wistful trio atthe front door. He must find Jean!

The day was darkening, and a light burned far back on the Toy Shop.Derry, standing outside, saw a room which was the very wraith of thegay little shop as he had left it—with its white tables, its longcounters piled high with finished dressings; the white elephants in aspectral row behind glass doors on the top shelf the only reminder ofwhat it once had been.

He saw, too, a small nun-like figure behind the counter, a figure allin white, with a white veil banded about her forehead and flowing downbehind.

All of her bright hair was hidden, her eyes were on the compresses thatshe was counting. It seemed to him that there was a sharpened look onthe little face.

He had not expected this. He had felt that he would find her glowingas she had been on that first night when he had followed his fatherthrough the rain—his dream had been of crinkled copper hair, of silverand rose, of youth and laughter and lightness—.

Her letters had been like that—gay, sparkling—there had been timeswhen they had seemed almost too exuberant, times when he had wonderedif she had really waked to the seriousness of the great struggle, andthe part he was to play in it.

Yet now he saw signs of suffering. He opened the door. "Jean," hecried.

With the blood all drained from her face, she stared at him as if shesaw a specter—"Derry," she whispered.

With his strong arms, he lifted her over the counter. "Jean-Joan,Jean-Joan—"

When at last she released herself, it was to laugh through her tears."Derry, pull down the shades; what will people think?"

He cared little what people would think. And, anyway, very few peoplewere passing at that late hour in the rain. But he pulled them down,and when he came back, he held her off at arm's length. "What have youbeen doing to yourself, dearest? You are a feather-weight."

"Well, I've been working."

"How does it happen that you are here alone?"

"Emily had to go down to order supplies, and Margaret went to a LibertyLoan meeting. I often stay like this to count and tie."

"Don't you get dreadfully tired?"

"Yes. But I think I like to get tired. It keeps me from thinking toomuch."

He drew her to him. "Take off your veil," he said, almost roughly. "Iwant to see your hair."

Divested of her headcovering, she was more like herself, but even thenhe was not content. He loosed a hairpin here and there and ran hisfingers through the crinkled gold. "If you knew how I've dreamed ofit, Jean-Joan."

But he had not dreamed of the dearness of the little face. "Mydarling, you have been pining, and I didn't know it."

"Well, didn't you like my smiling letters?"

"So that was it? You've been trying to cheer me up, and lettingyourself get like this."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Didn't you know that I'd want to be worried with anything thatpertained to you? What's a husband for, dearest, if you can't tell himyour troubles?"

"Yes, but a soldier-husband, Derry, is different. You've got to keepsmiling—"

Her lips trembled and she clung to him. "It is so good to have youhere, Derry."

She admitted, later, that she had confided her troubles to her memorybook. "There weren't any big things, really—just missing you and allthat—"

He was jealous of the memory book. "I shall read every word of it."

"Not until you come back from the war—and then we can laugh at ittogether."

They fell into silence after that. With his arms about her he thoughtthat he might not come back, and she clinging to him had the samethought. But neither told the other.

"Do you know," she said at last, sitting up and sticking the hairpinsinto her crinkled knot. "Do you know that it's almost time for dinner,and that the General will wonder where I am?"

"I told Bronson not to tell him."

"Oh, really, Derry? Let's make it a great surprise."

Providentially the General was late. He and the children came home tofind the house quite remarkably illumined, and Margaret flushed andexcited, and in white.

"Is it a party, Mother?" Teddy asked, lending his shoulder manfully tothe General's hand, as, with the chauffeur on the other side, theyhelped the old man up the stairs.

"No, but on such a rainy night Bronson and I thought we'd have a littlefeast. Don't you think that would be fun?"

The General was tired. "I had planned not to come down again—"

"Please do," she begged,

Bronson, knowing his master's moods, was on tip-toe with anxiety."I've your things all laid out, sir."

"Well, well, I'll see."

Teddy, somewhat out of breath as they reached the top landing wasinspired to remark, "We'll be 'spointed if you don't come down—"

"You want me, eh?"

"Yes, I do. There isn't any other man—"

The General chuckled. "Well, that's reason enough—. You can count onme, Ted, for masculine support."

The table was laid for six. Teddy appearing presently in the diningroom pointed out the fact to Bronson, who was taking a last look.

"Is Margaret-Mary coming down?"

"She may later, for the sweets."

"Those aren't her spoons and forks."

"Well, well," said Bronson, "so they aren't"; but he did not have themchanged.

The General in his dinner coat, perfectly groomed, immaculate, foundJean in rose and silver waiting for him.

"How gay we are," he said, and pinched her cheek.

Teddy in white linen and patent leathers also approved. "You've got onyour spangly dwess, and it makes you pwetty—"

"Oh, Ted, is it just my clothes that make me pretty?"

"I didn't mean that. Only tonight you're so nice and—shining."

She shone, indeed, with such effulgence, that it was a wonder that theGeneral did not suspect. But he did not, even when she said, "We havea surprise for you."

"For me, my dear?"

"Yes. A parcel—it came this afternoon. We want you to untie thestring."

"Where is it?" Teddy demanded.

"On the table in the blue room."

Teddy rushed in ahead of the rest, came back and reported, "It's a bigone."

It was a big one, cone-shaped and tied up in brown paper. It was seton a heavy carved table, a length of tapestry was under it and hid thelegs of the table.

"It looks like a small tree," the General remarked. "But why all thisair of mystery?"

He was plainly bored by the fuss they were making. He was tired, andhe wanted his dinner.

But Jean, in an excited voice, was telling him to cut the string, andBronson was handing him a knife.

And then—the paper dropped and everybody was laughing, and Teddy wasscreaming wildly and he was staring at the khaki-clad upper half of atall young soldier whose silver-blond hair was clipped close, and whosehand went up in salute.

"It's Cousin Derry. It's Cousin Derry," Teddy was shouting, andMargaret-Mary piped up, "It's Tousin Dee."

Derry stepped out from behind the table, where leaning forward andwrapped up he had lent himself to the illusion, and put both hands onthe General's shoulders. "Glad to see me, Dad?"

"Glad; my dear boy—" It was almost too much for him.

Yet as supported by his son's arm, they went a moment later into thedining room, he had a sense of renewed strength in the youth and vigorof this youth who was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. If his ownfeet could not march here were feet which would march for him.

There were flowers on the table, most extravagantly, for these wartimes, orchids; and there were tall white candles in silver holders.

Jean shining between the candles was a wonder for the world to gazeupon. Derry couldn't keep his eyes off her. This was no longer alittle nun of the Toy Shop, yet he held the vision of the little nun inhis heart, lest he should forget that she had suffered.

He talked to them all. But beating like a wave against hisconsciousness was always the thought of Jean. Of the things he had totell her which he could tell to no one else. He knew now that he couldreveal to her the depths of his nature. He had withheld so much,fearing to crush her butterfly wings, but she was not a butterfly.They had been playing at cross purposes, and writing letters thatmerely skimmed the surface of their emotions. It had taken thosemoments in the Toy Shop to teach them their mistake.

Teddy, feeling that the occasion called for a relaxing of thechildren-should-be-seen-and-not-heard rule, asked questions.

"How long can you stay?"

"Ten days."

"Are you going to Fwance?"

"I hope so."

"Mother says I've got to pray for the Germans."

"Teddy," Margaret admonished.

"Well, I rather think I would," Derry told him. "They need it."

This was a new angle. "Shall you hate to kill them?"

There was a stir about the table. The old man and the women seemed tohang on Derry's answer.

"Yes, I shall hate it. I hate all killing, but it's got to be done."

He spoke presently, at length, of what many men thought of war.

"We are red-blooded enough, we Americans, but I think we hate killingthe other man rather more than we fear being killed. It'ssickening—bayonet practice. Killing at long range is different. Thechildren of my generation were trained to tender-heartedness. Welooked after the birds and rescued kittens, and were told that warswere impossible—long wars. But war is not impossible, and it has comeupon us, and we are finding that men must be brave not merely in theface of losing their own lives, but in the face of taking the livesof—others. I sometimes wonder what it must have seemed to thoseGermans who went first into Belgium. Some of them must have beenkind—some of them must have asked to be shot rather than be set at thework of butchery.

"I sometimes think," he pursued, "that if we could give moving picturesof the war just as it is—in all its horror and hideousness—show thepictures in every little town in every country in the world, that warwould stop at once. If the Germans could see themselves in those townsin Belgium—if the world could see them. If we could see men moweddown—wounded, close up, as our soldiers see them. If our peopleshould be forced to look at those pictures, as the people of war-riddencountries have been forced to gaze upon realities, money would beprovided and men provided in such amounts and numbers that those whobegan the war would be forced to end it on the terms the world wouldset for them.

"The fact that men are going into this war in spite of their aversionto killing shows the stuff of which they are made. It is like drowningkittens," he smiled a little. "It has to be done or the world would beoverrun by cats."

Teddy, wide-eyed, was listening. "Do people drown kittens?" he asked."Oh, I didn't think they would." It was a sad commentary on theconditions of war that he was more heavily oppressed by the thought ofdrowned little cats than by the murder of men.

"My dear fellow," Derry said, "we won't talk about such things. I mustbeg your pardon for mentioning it."

The talk flowed on then in lighter vein. "Ralph Witherspoon is intown," Jean vouchsafed. "He had a bad fall and was sent home to getover it. Mrs. Witherspoon has asked me there to dine. I shall takeyou with me."

"I didn't know that people were dining out in these times."

"Mrs. Witherspoon prides herself on her conservation menus. She saysthat she serves war things, that she gives us nothing to eat that themen need, and she likes her friends about her."

"We shall miss Drusilla," Derry said. "I've been worried about hersince the Huns recaptured those towns in France."

"Daddy wrote that she is not far from his hospital, doing splendidwork, and that the men adore her."

"They would," said Derry. "She is a great-hearted creature. I canfancy her singing to them over there. You know what a wonder she wasat that sort of thing—"

After dinner the General was eager to have his son to himself. "Thewomen will excuse us while we smoke and talk."

Derry's eyes wandered to Jean. "All right," he said with an effort.

The General's heart tightened. His son was his son. The little girlin silver and rose was in a sense an outsider. She had not known Derrythroughout the years, as his father had known him. How could she careas much?

Yet she did care. He realized how Derry's coming had changed her. Heheard her laugh as she had not laughed in all the weeks of loneliness.She came up and stood beside Derry, and linked her arm in his andlooked up at him with shining eyes.

"Isn't he—wonderful?" she asked, with a catch of her breath.

"Oh, take her away," the old gentleman said. "Go and talk to hersomewhere."

Derry's face brightened. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not," stoutly. "Bronson says that the rain has stopped.There's probably a moon somewhere, if you'll look for it."

Margaret went up to put the children to bed. Emily, promising to comeback, withdrew to write a letter. The old man sat alone.

He limped into the blue room, and gazed indifferently around on itstreasures. Once he had cared for these plates and cups—his quest forrare porcelains had been eager.

And now he did not care. The lovely glazed things were for the eye,not for the heart. He would have given them all for the touch of aloving hand, for a voice that grew tender—.

There was the patter of little feet on the polished floor.Margaret-Mary in a diminutive blue dressing gown and infinitesimalslippers, with her curls brushed tidily up from the back of her neckand skewered with a hairpin, came over and laid her hand on his knee."Dus a 'itte 'tory?" she asked ingratiatingly. She adored stories.

He picked her up, and she curled herself into the corner of his arm.

Her mother found her there. "Mother's naughty little girl," she said,"to run away—"

"Let her stay," the General begged. "Somehow my heart needs hertonight."

CHAPTER XXVIII

SIX DAYS

Four days of Derry's furlough had passed, four palpitating days, and nowthe hours that the lovers spent together began to take on the poignantquality of coming separation. Every moment counted, nothing must belost, nothing must be left unsaid, nothing must be left undone whichshould emphasize their oneness of thought and purpose.

They read together, they walked together, they rode together, they wentto church together. If they included the General in their plans it wasbecause they felt his need of them, not theirs of him. They lived in aworld created to survive for ten days and then to collapse like a prickedbubble—

And it was because of the dread of collapse that Jean began to plan astructure of remembrance which should endure after Derry's departure.

"Darling," she said, "there are only six days—What shall we do withthem?"

THE FIFTH DAY

It was Sunday, and in the morning they went dutifully to church. Theyate their luncheon dutifully with the whole family, and motored dutifullyafterwards with the General. Then at twilight they sought the Toy Shop.

They had it all to themselves, and they had told Bronson that they wouldnot be home for dinner. So Jean made chocolate for Derry as she had madeit on that first night for his father. They toasted war bread on theelectric grill, and there were strawberries.

They were charmed with their housekeeping. "It would have been likethis," Derry said—all eyes for her loveliness, "if you had been the girlin the Toy Shop and I had been the shabby boy—"

Jean pondered. "I wonder if a big house is ever really a home?"

"Not ours. Mother tried to make it—but it has always been a sort ofmuseum with Dad's collections."

"Do you think that some day we could have a little house?"

"We can have whatever you want." His smile warmed her.

"Wouldn't you want it, Derry?"

"If you were in it."

"Let's talk about it, and plan it, and put dream furniture in it, anddream friends—"

"More Lovely Dreams?"

"Well, something like that—a House o' Dreams, Derry, without any golddragons or marble balls or queer porcelain things; just our own bits offurniture and china, and a garden, and Muffin and Polly Ann—" Her eyeswere wistful.

"You shall have it now if you wish."

"Not until you can share it with me—"

And that was the beginning of their fantastic pilgrimage. In the timethat was left to them they were to find a house of dreams, and as Jeansaid, expansively, "all the rest."

"We will start tonight," Derry declared. "There's such a moon."

It was the kind of moon that whitened the world; one swam in a sea oflight. Derry's runabout was a fairy car. Jean's hair was molten gold,her lover's pale silver—as with bare heads, having passed the citylimits, they took the open road.

It was as warm as summer, and there were fragrances which seemed to washover them in waves as they passed old gardens and old orchards. Therewas bridal-wreath billowing above stone fences, snow-balls, pale globesamong the green, beds of iris, purple-black beneath the moon.

They forded a stream—more silver, and a silver road after that.

"Where are we going?" Jean breathed.

"I know a house—"

It was a little house set on top of a hill, where indeed no little houseshould be set, for little houses should nestle, protected by the slopesback of them. But this little house was set up there for the view—theMonument a spectral shaft, miles away, the Potomac broadening out beyondit, the old trees of the Park sleeping between. This was what the littlehouse saw by night; it saw more than that by day.

It was not an empty house. One window was lighted, a square of gold in alower room.

They did not know who lived in the house. They did not care. For themoment it was theirs. Leaving the car, they sat on the grass andsurveyed their property.

"Of course it is ours," Jean said, "and when you are over there, you canthink of it with the moon shining on it."

"I like the sloping roof," her lover took up the refrain, "and the bigchimney and the wide windows."

"I can sit on the window seat and watch for you, Derry, and there will besmoke coming out of the chimney on cold days, and a fire roaring on thehearth when you open the door—"

They decided that there ought to be eight rooms—, and they named them.The Log-Fire Room; The Room of Little Feasts; the Place of Pots and Pans—

"That's the first floor," said Jean.

"Yes."

The upper floor was harder—The Royal Suite; The Friendly Boom, for thedream maid of all work; The Spare Chamber—

"My grandmother had a spare chamber," Jean explained, "and I always likedthe sound of it, as if she kept her hospitality pressed down and runningover—"

Derry, who had written it all by the light of the moon, held his pencilpoised. "There is one more," he said, "the little room towards theWest—"

Jean hesitated for the breadth of a second. "Well, we may need another,"she said, and left it nameless.

The door opened and a man came out. If he saw them, they meant nothingto him—a pair of lovers by the wayside; there were many such.

He paced back and forth on the gravel walk. They could hear the crunchof it under his feet. They saw the shining tip of his cigar—smelt itsfragrance—.

Again the door opened, to frame a woman. She called and her voice wasyoung.

"Dearest, it is late. Are you coming in?"

His young voice answered. His far-flung cigar-end trailed across thedarkness, his eager steps gave quick response—the door was shut—.

"Oh, Derry, I'd call you like that—-"

"And I should come."

The light went out on the lower floor, and presently in a room above awindow was illumined.

THE SIXTH DAY

A dream house must have dream furniture. There are old shops inAlexandria, where, less often than in earlier years, one may findtreasures, bow-legged chairs and gate-legged tables, yellowed letterswritten by famous pens, steel engravings which have hung in historichalls, pewter and plate, Luster and Sèvres, Wedgwood and Willow,Chippendale and Hepplewhite, Adams and Empire, everything linked withsome distinguished name, everything with a story, real or invented. Onemay buy an ancestor for a song, or at least the portrait of one, andsilver with armorial bearings, and no one will know if you do not tellthem that your heirlooms have come from a shop.

And Alexandria, as all the world knows, is reached from Washington bymotor and trolley, train or ferry.

It was by ferry that the lovers preferred to go in the glory of this Maymorning, feeling the breeze fresh in their faces as with a motley crowdthey stood on the lower deck and looked towards the old town.

Thus they came to the wharves, flanked by ancient warehouses in astraggly row along the water line. The windows of these ancient edificeshad looked down on Revolutionary heroes, the old brick walls had echoedto the sound of fife and drum—the old streets had once been thronged bymen in blue and buff. Since those days the quaint little city had baskedin the pride of her traditions. She had tolerated nothing modern untilwithin this very year she had waked to find that her red-coat enemy wasnow her friend, that the roads which George Washington had travelled werebeing trod once more by marching men; that in the church where he hadworshipped prayers were being said once more for men in battle.

And into the shops, with their storied antiques, drifted now men inolive-drab and men in blue, and men in forester's green, who laughed atthe flint locks and powder horns, saluted the Father of his Countrywhenever they passed his picture, gazed with reverence on ancient swordsand uniforms, dickered for such small articles as might be bought out oftheir limited allowances, and paid in the end, cheerfully, prices whichwould have been scorned by any discriminating buyer.

"There must be a table for the Log-Fire Room," Jean told her husband,"and a fire-bench, not too high, and a big chair for you, and anotherchair for me—"

"And a stool for your little feet—."

"And a desk for you, Derry."

"And an oval mirror with a gold frame, for me to see your face in,Jean-Joan—"

Then there was a four-poster bed with pineapples, and an Adams screen, anold brass-bound chest, the most adorable things in Sheffield and crystal,and to crown it all, a picture of George Washington—a print, faintlycolored, with the country's coat of arms carved on the frame.

Yet not one thing did they buy except a quite sumptuous and splendidmarriage coffer which suggested itself at once as the only weddingpresent for Emily.

The price took Jean's breath away. "But, dearest—"

"Nothing is too good for Emily, Jean-Joan."

That night Derry drew a picture of the house in Jean's memory book.

"I'll put a garden in front—"

"How can you put in a garden, Derry, when there isn't one?"

She wore a lace robe and a lace cap, and there were pink ribbons threadedin, and her cheeks were pink. "You can't put in a garden until there isone, Derry. When we find it, it must be a lovesome garden, with theold-fashioned flowers, and a fountain with a cupid—and a fish-pond."

With this settled, he proceeded, with facile pen, to furnish the house.There was the Log-Fire Room, with the print of George Washington over themantel, with Jean's knitting on the table; Muffin on one side of thefire, and Polly Ann on the other. He even started to put Jean in one ofthe big chairs, but she made him rub it out. "Not yet, Derry. You see,I am not living in it yet. I am living here, with you alive and loving—"

He caught her to him. "When you are away from me," she whispered, "I'lllive in it—and you'll be there—and I shall never feel alone—"

Yet later, Derry coming in unexpectedly after a talk with his father,found her sobbing with her head on the fat old book.

"My darling—"

"It isn't that I am unhappy, Derry—. It is just for that one littleminute, I wanted it to be real—"

THE SEVENTH DAY

It was on the morning of the seventh day that a letter came from Drusilla.

"Dear Babes in the Wood:

"I am writing this to tell you that the next time I see Captain Hewes, Iam going to marry him. That sounds a little like a hold-up, doesn't it?But it is the way we are doing things over here. He has wanted it for solong, and I am beginning to know that I want it, too. It has been hardto tell just what was really best in the face of all that is happening.It has seemed sometimes as if it were a sacrilege to think of love andlife in the midst of death and destruction.

"I shan't have any trousseau; I shan't have a wedding journey. He willjust blow in some day, and the chaplain will marry us, and the little oldcuré of this village will give us his blessing.

"I never expected to be married like this. You know the kind of mind Ihave. I must always see the picture of myself doing things, and therehad always been a sort of dream of some great church with a blur of goldlight at the far end, and myself floating up the aisle in a cloud ofwhite veil, and a hushed crowd and the organ playing.

"And it won't be a bit like that. I shall wear a uniform and a flannelshirt, and I'll be lucky if my boots are not splashed with mud. It willseem queer to be married with my boots on, as men died in old romances.

"Perhaps by the time this reaches you, Drusilla Gray will be DrusillaHewes, and so I ask your blessing, and your prayers.

"I should never have asked for your prayers a year ago. I should havebeen thanking you for your wedding present of glass and silver, andasking you to dine with me on Tuesday or Thursday as the case might be.But now, the only thought that holds me is whether God will give myCaptain back to me, and the hope that if not, I may have the strength tobear it—.

"I am sure that Derry will feel the sublimity of it all when hecomes—death is so near, yet so little feared; the men know that tonightor tomorrow they may be beyond the shadows, and it holds them tosomething bigger than themselves.

"But be sure of this, my dears, that when Derry goes the seas will notpart you—. Spirit touches spirit, space has nothing to do with it.Often when I am alone, the Captain comes to me, speaks to me, cheers me;I think if he should die in battle, he would still come.

"If ever I have a home of my own, I shall build an altar not to theUnknown God but to the God whom I had lost and have found again. I gointo old churches here to pray, and it is no longer a matter of feeling,no longer a matter of form, it is something more than that.

"And now I can't ask you to dance at my wedding, but I can ask you towish me happiness and a long life with my lover, or failing that, thestrength to give him up—"

She signed herself, "Always loving you both, DRUSILLA."

"Such a dear letter," said Jean.

"And such a different Drusilla. Do you think that the Drusilla of theold days would have built an altar?"

And it was because of Drusilla's letter that Derry took Jean thatafternoon to the great Library with the gold dome and guided her to acorridor made beautiful by the brush of an artist who had painted "TheOccupations of the Day"; in one lunette a primitive man and woman kneltbefore a pile of stones on which burned a sacred flame. Above them wasblue sky—flowers grew within reach of their hands—the fields stretchedbeyond.

"We must build an altar, dearest."

"In our hearts—"

"And in our House of Dreams—"

THE EIGHTH DAY

There was no getting out of the Witherspoon dinner, and it was when Ralphgreeted Jean that he said to her, "You are lovelier than ever."

She smiled at him. "It is because my heart is singing—"

"Do you feel like that?"

She nodded. "In three days the song will cease—the lights will go out,and the curtain will fall—the end of the world will come."

"Drake goes in three days?"

"He goes back to camp. I don't expect to see him again before he sails."

"Lucky fellow."

"To go?"

"To have you."

"Please don't."

"Let me say this—that I acted like a cad; I'd like to feel that you'veforgiven me."

"I have forgotten, which is better, isn't it?"

"How sweet you are—and all the sweetness is Derry's. Well, when I goover, will you pray for me, my dear?"

He was in dead earnest. "There are so few women—who pray—but I ratherfancy that you must—"

All around them was surging talk. "How strange it seems," Jean said,"that we should be speaking of such things, here—"

"No," Ralph said, "it is not strange. I have a feeling that I shan'tcome back."

Alma Drew on the other side of him claimed his attention. "War is thegreat sensational opportunity. And there are people who like patriotismof the sound-the-trumpet-beat-the-drum variety—"

"You said that rather cleverly, Alma," Ralph told her, "but you mustn'tforget that was the kind of patriotism our forefathers had, and it seemedrather effective."

"Men aren't machines," Jean said hotly. "They are flesh and blood, andso are women—a fife and drum or a bag-pipe means more to them than justcrude music; the blood of their ancestors thrilled to the sound."

"As savages thrill to a tom-tom."

They stared at her.

"It is all savage," Alma said, crisply and coolly, "We are all murderers.We are teaching our men to run Germans through with bayonets, and tryingto make ourselves think that they aren't breaking the sixth commandment.Yet in times of peace, when a man kills he goes to the electric chair—"

It was Derry who answered that. "If in times of peace I heard you screamand saw you set upon by thieves and murderers, and stood with my hands inmy pockets while you were tortured and killed, would you call mynon-interference laudable?"

"That's different."

"It is the same thing. The only difference lies in the fact thatthousands of defenceless women and little children are calling. Wouldyou have the nation stand with its hands in its pockets?"

Alma, cold as ice, challenged him: "Why should they call to us? We'll besorry some day that we went into it."

Out of a dead silence, a man said: "Not long ago, I went into a sweetshop in England. A woman came in with two children. They were rosychildren and round. They carried muffs.

"She bought candy for them—and when she gave it to them, I saw that theyhad—no hands—"

A gasp went round the table.

"They were Belgian children."

That night Jean said to Derry with a sternness which set strangely uponher, "We must have friends in our House of Dreams. The latchstrings willalways be out for people like Emily and Marion, and Drusilla, and Ulrichand Ralph—"

"Yes—"

"But not for Hilda and Alma."

THE NINTH DAY

It was on the ninth day that Derry waked his wife at dawn. "I've orderedthe car. It rained in the night, and now—oh, there was never such amorning; there may never be such a morning for us again."

"What time is it, Derry?"

"Sunrise time—come and see."

Her window faced the east, and she saw all the pearl of it, and the faintrose and the amethyst and gold.

"We shall eat our breakfast ten miles from town," Derry said, as theircar carried him out into the country, "and there's a lovesome garden—"

"With old-fashioned flowers and a fountain and a Cupid?"

"With all that—and more—"

The garden belonged to an old woman. For years and years she had plantedflowers—-tulips and hyacinths and poppies and lilies and gladiolus andlarkspur and phlox and ladyslipper—there had always been a riot of color.

She had an old gardener, and she would stand over him, leaning on hersilver-topped ebony cane, with a lace scarf covering her hair, and wouldpoint out the places to plant things.

But now in her garden she had strawberries and Swiss chard and sweetherbs, and rows and rows of peas and young onions and potatoes, with aplace left for corn at the back, and tomatoes in every spare space.

And there was lettuce, and an asparagus bed, and everything on this Maymorning was shouting to the sun.

"I had always thought," said the old lady to Derry, when he presentedJean, "that a vegetable garden was uninteresting. But it is a littleworld—with class distinctions of its own, if you please. All the reallyuseful vegetables we call common; it is the ones we can do without whichare the aristocrats. The potatoes and cabbages and onions are reallyimportant, but I am proudest of my young peas and my peppers andcucumbers and tomatoes, and that's the way of the world, isn't it? Ifthere was only an aristocracy things would stop, but the common folkcould go on alone until the end of time."

She gave Jean a blue bowl to pick strawberries in; and Derry dugasparagus—the creamy shoots were tipped with pale purple and pink,deepening into green where they had stood too long in the sun.

"Aren't there any flowers?" Jean was anxious.

"Come and see." The old woman went ahead of them, her cane tap-tappingon the stone flags.

She opened a gate which was flanked by brick walls. "These," she said,whimsically, "are my jewels."

[Illustration: "These are my jewels."]

All the sweetness which had once spread over her domain was concentratedhere, fragrance and flame—roses, iris, peonies—honeysuckle—ruby andemerald, amethyst and gold; a Cupid riding a swan, with water pouringfrom his quiver into a shallow marble basin.

"I should not have dared keep this, if it had not been for the other—"the old woman told them. "I am very sure that in these days God walks invegetable gardens—"

For breakfast they had strawberries and radishes, thin little corncakes—and two fresh eggs from the chickens which most triumphantlyoccupied the conservatory.

"This is the only way I can do my bit," the old lady explained, "byhelping with the world's food supply. My eyes are bad and I cannot sew,my fingers are twisted and I cannot knit, and Dennis is old—but we planthe garden and plant—"

And that night Jean said to Derry, "I am glad there were flowers to makeit lovesome—and I am glad there were vegetables to make it right."

So he drew a waving field of corn back of the dream cottage, and tomatoesand peas to the right and left—with onions in a stiff row along theborder, and potatoes storming the hillside. But the gate which led tothe Lovesome Garden was open wide, so that one might see the Cupid as herode his swan.

THE LAST DAY

It was on the tenth day that Derry said, "We have our house and thefurniture for it, and we have built an altar, and found our friends, andwe have planted a garden—what shall we do on the last day?"

And Jean said, rather unexpectedly, "We will go to the circus."

"To the circus?"

"Yes. And take the children—they are dying to go, and Margaret can't.It is up to you and me, Derry."

Even Nurse was to stay behind. "We'll have them all to ourselves."

Derry was dubious, a little hurt. "It seems rather queer, doesn't it, onour last day?"

"I—I think I should like it better than anything else, Derry."

And so they went.

It was warm with a hint of showers in the air, and both of the childrenwere in white. Jean was also in white. They rode in the General'slimousine to where the big tent with all its flags flying covered a vastspace.

"Cousin Derry, Mother said I might have some peanuts."

"All right, old man."

"And Margaret-Mary mustn't. But there are some crackers in a bag."

It was all most entrancing, the gilded wagons, the restless beasts behindtheir bars, the spotted ponies, the swaying elephants, the bands playing,the crowds streaming—.

Teddy held tight to Jean's hand. Margaret-Mary was carried high onDerry's shoulder. All of her curls were bobbing, and her eyes wereshining. Now and then she dropped a light kiss on the silver blond hairof her cavalier.

"Tousin Dee," she murmured, affectionately.

"She's an adorable kiddie," Derry told Jean as they found their seats.

"Cousin Derry," Teddy reminded him, "don't forget the peanuts."

And now the trumpets blared and the drums boomed, and the great paradewrithed like a glittering serpent around the huge circle, then broke upinto various groups as the performance began in the rings.

After that one needed all of one's eyes. Teddy sat spellbound for awhile, but found time at last to draw a long breath. "Cousin Derry, thatis the funniest clown—"

"The little one?"

"The big one; oh, well, the little one, too."

Silence again while the elephants did amazing things in one ring, withJapanese tumblers in another, with piebald ponies beyond, and thingsbeing done on trapezes everywhere.

Teddy slipped his hand into Derry's. "It's—it's almost like havingDaddy," he confided. "I know he's glad I'm here."

Derry's big hand closed over the small one. "I'm glad, too, old chap."

Margaret-Mary having gazed her fill, slept comfortably in Jean's arms.

"Let me hold her," Derry said.

Jean shook her head. "I love to have her here."

She had taken off her hat, and as she bent above the child her hair madea halo of gold. In the midst of all the tawdriness she was a still andsacred figure—a Madonna with a child.

Teddy, when he reached home, told the General all about it.

"It was be-yeutiful—but Cousin Jean cwied—-"

"Cried?"

"I saw a tear rwunning down her cheek, and it splashed on Margaret-Mary'snose—"

And that night Derry said, "My darling, what shall I draw in our book?"

"The thing that you want most to remember, Derry."

So he drew her all in white, bending over a child of dreams.

The next morning, she told him "Good-bye." They had come along to theToy Shop for their farewell, so that there was only the old whiteelephant to see her tears, and the Lovely Dreams to be sorry for her.

Yet her head was held high at the very last, and she was not sorry forherself. "I am glad and proud to have you go, dearest. I am glad andproud—"

And after he had gone, she worked until lunch time on the bandages andwipes, and rode with the General in the afternoon, with her hand in his,knowing that it comforted him.

But very late that night, when every one else is the big house was fastasleep, she crept out into the hall in her lace robe and lace cap andpink slippers and stood beneath the picture of the painted lady. "Hewill come back," she said. "He must come back—and—oh, oh, Derry'smother in Heaven—you must tell me how to live—without him—."

CHAPTER XXIX

"AND, AFTER ALL, HE CAME TO THE WARS!"

A perfect day, with men lying dead by thousands on the battlefield;twilight, with a young moon; night and the stars—

Drusilla's throat was dry with singing—there had been so many hurt,and she had found that it helped them to hear her, so when a moaning,groaning, cursing ambulance load stopped a moment, she sang; whenwalking wounded came through sagging with pain and dreadful weariness,she sang; and when night fell, and an engine was stalled, and she tookin her own car a man who must be rushed to the first collectingstation, she found herself still singing—. And this time it was "TheBattle Hymn of the Republic."

The man propped up beside her murmured, "My Captain liked that—he usedto sing it—"

"Yes?" She was listening with only half an ear. There were so manyCaptains.

"He was engaged to an American."

She listened now. "Your Captain—?"

"Captain Hewes."

She guided the car steadily. "Dawson Hewes?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I—I am the girl he is going to marry—"

He froze into silence. She bent towards him. "What made yousay—was—?"

"He's—gone West—"

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"When?" She still drove steadily through the dark.

"To-day."

She looked up at the stars. So—he would never come blowing in withthe sweet spring winds.

"I'd rather have been—shot—than to have told you that—" the manbeside her was saying, "but, you see, I didn't know you were the girl—"

"Of course you couldn't. You mustn't blame yourself."

She delivered her precious charge at the hospital and put up her carfor the night. Standing alone under the stars she wondered what sheshould do next. There was no one to tell—the women who had workedwith her in the town which had since been recaptured by the Germans hadgone to other towns. But she had stayed as near the front as possible,and she had never felt lonely because at any moment her lover mightcome—there had always been the thought that he might come—.

And now he would never come!

She had a room in the house of an old woman, all of whose sons were inthe war. So far two of them had escaped death. But the old woman saidoften, fatalistically, "They will not always escape—but it will be forFrance."

The old woman had soup on the fire for Drusilla's supper. The room wasfaintly lighted. "What is it?" she asked, as the girl dropped down onthe doorstep.

"My Captain is dead—"

The old woman rose and stood over her. "It comes to all."

"I know."

"Will you eat your soup? When the heart fails, the body must havestrength."

Drusilla covered her face with her bands. The room was very still.The old woman went back to her chair by the fire and waited. At lastshe rose and filled a small bowl with the soup—she broke into it asmall allowance of bread. Then she came and sat on the step beside thegirl.

"Eat, Mademoiselle," she said, with something like authority, andDrusilla obeyed. And when she gave back the bowl, the old woman set iton the floor, and drew the girl's head to her breast.

And Drusilla lay there, crying softly, a lonely American mothered bythis indomitable old woman of France.

Days passed, days in which men came and men went and Drusilla sang tothem. And now new faces were seen among the tired and war-worn ones.Eager young Americans, pressing forward towards the front, found acountrywoman in the little town; and they wrote home about her. "She'sa beauty, by jinks, and when she sings it pulls the heart out of you.She's the kind you want to say your prayers to."

So her fame went forth and took on gradually something of thesupernatural—her tall, straight slenderness, her steady eyes, her haloof red hair grew to have a sort of sacred significance, like that ofsome militant young saint.

Then came a day when Derry's regiment marched through the town to thetrenches, spent an interval, and came back, awed by what it had seen,but undaunted.

Drusilla, sitting on the doorstep of the stone house, saw a tall figurestriding down the street. He stopped to speak to an old woman anddoffed his hat, showing a clipped silver-blond head.

Drusilla went flying through the dusk. "Derry, Derry!"

He stared and stared again. "Is it you?" he asked. Nothing was vividnow about Drusilla except her hair.

"Yes."

He took her hands in his. "My dear girl." It was hard for either ofthem to speak.

"Did Bruce McKenzie tell you that my Captain has—gone West?"

"I had a letter. I haven't seen him. His hospital isn't far fromhere, I understand."

"Just outside. He—he has been a great help—to me, Derry."

She took him back to her doorstep and they sat down.

"Tell me about Jean."

He tried to tell her, wavered a little and spoke the truth. "Thehardest thing was leaving her. I don't mind the fighting. I don'tmind anything but the fact that she's over there and I'm over here.But it had to be—of course."

"Yes, everything had to be, Derry. I am believing that more and more.When my Captain went—I found how much I cared. I hadn't always beensure. But I am sure now, and I am sure, too, that he knows—"

"Love—in these times, Derry—isn't building a nest—and singing songsin the tree tops on a May morning; it goes beyond just the man and thewoman; it even goes beyond the child. It goes as far as the future ofmankind. What the future of the world will be depends not so much onhow much you love Jean or she loves you, or on how much I loved and wasloved, but on how much that love will mean to the world. If we can'tgive up our own for the sake of the world's ideal then love hasn'tmeant what it should to you and to me, Derry—"

She rose as a group of men approached. "They want me to sing for them.You won't mind?"

"My dear girl, I have heard of you everywhere. I believe that some ofthe fellows say their prayers to you at night—"

She stood up and sang. Her hair caught the light from the room back ofher. She gave them a popular air or two, a hymn, "The Marseillaise—"

He missed nothing in her then. In spite of her paleness, the old firewas there, the passion of patriotism—there was, too, a new note oftriumphant faith.

She needed no candles now, no red and white and blue for abackground—she did not even need her beauty, her voice was enough—

When she sat down and the men had gone she said to Derry, "Do youremember when I last sang the 'Marseillaise' for you?"

"Yes."

He brought out from his pocket a tiny object and set it on the step, sothat the light from the open door shone on it.

"You gave it to me, Drusilla."

"Oh, my little tin soldier."

"And after all, he came to the wars—"

Very proudly the little soldier shouldered his musket.

He had indeed come to the wars, and the winds of France blew upon him,the stars of France were over his head, the soil of France was beneathhis feet.

Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt—blew all the bugles of France, andthe little tin soldier was at last content!

Derry had, too, in his pocket a letter from Jean; he read to Drusillathe part that belonged to her.

"Tell Drusilla that there's a chair in our dream house for her. Ioften shut my eyes and see her in it, and I see Daddy and you, Derry,all home safe from the war and the world at peace—"

"Safe and at home and the world at peace—. Will the time ever come,Derry?"

"You know it will come. It must—"

It was three days later that Dr. McKenzie motored over for a latesupper with Drusilla and Derry. They were served by the old woman whohad mothered the lonely girl.

"To think," the Doctor said, as they sat at their frugal board, "tothink that we three should be here in the midst of all this; and yet ayear ago I was wondering what to do with the rest of my life, Drusillawas running around telling people what kind of pictures to put on theirwalls, and what kind of draperies to put at their windows, and Derrywas trying to pretend that he was not an elegant idler; and now—we areseeing a world made over—"

"You are seeing the world of men made over," said Drusilla, "but themost wonderful thing is seeing the women made over."

"I don't want to see the women made over," the Doctor groaned. "Theyare nice enough as it is. I want my little Jean gay and smiling—andDerry tells me that she is a nun in a white veil."

"She is more than that," Derry said, and a great light came into hiseyes. "I sometimes feel that she and Drusilla are holding hands acrossthe sea—two brave women in different spheres."

Drusilla, wise Drusilla pondered. "Perhaps the war will teach men likeBruce that women aren't playthings—"

"Don't be too hard on me, Drusilla."

"I am not hard. I am telling the truth."

"I'll forgive you, because in these weeks you've taught me a lot—"Bruce McKenzie's world would not have recognized in this tired andserious gentleman its twinkling, teasing man of medicine. Weary feeton the stones—

"I must go to them," Drusilla said.

She went out on the step. They saw the men cluster about her—Frenchand English, Scotch—a few Americans.

Her voice soared:

"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea,
With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me.
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free—
While God is marching on—"

"Look," said the Doctor. "Do you see their faces, Derry?"

Gazing up at her as if they drank her in, the men listened. She wasthe daughter of a nation of dreamers, the daughter of a nation whichmade its dreams come true.

Tired and spent, they saw in her hope personified. They saw Americacoming fresh and unworn to fight a winning battle to the end. So theyturned their faces towards Drusilla. She was more to them than asinging woman. Behind her stood a steadfast people—and God wasmarching on.

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