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JOY IN THE MORNING

by

MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS

New YorkCharles Scribner's Sons

1919

[Illustration: He pinned the thing men die for on the shabby coat ofthe guide. [_Page_ 135]]

 * * * * * *

By MARY R. S. ANDREWS

 JOY IN THE MORNING THE ETERNAL FEMININE AUGUST FIRST THE ETERNAL MASCULINE THE MILITANTS BOB AND THE GUIDES CROSSES OF WAR HER COUNTRY OLD GLORY THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED THE COURAGE OF THE COMMONPLACE THE LIFTED BANDAGE THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

 Charles Scribner's Sons

 * * * * * *

DEDICATION

To the two stars of a service flag, to a brother and a son who served inFrance, this book is dedicated. No book, to my thinking, were oneShakespere and Isaiah rolled together, might fittingly answer the honorwhich they, with four million more American soldiers, have brought totheir own. So that the stories march out very proudly, headed by thenames of

 CHAPLAIN HERBERT SHIPMAN

 AND

 CAPTAIN PAUL SHIPMAN ANDREWS

NOTE

Now that the tide of Khaki has set toward our shores instead of away;now that the streets are filled with splendid boys with gold chevrons offoreign service or no less honorable silver chevrons of service here;now that the dear lads who sleep in France know that the "torch wascaught" from their hands, and that faith with them was kept; nowthat--thank God, who, after all, rules--the war is over, there is an oldword close to the thought of the nation. "Heaviness may endure for anight, but joy cometh in the morning. " A whole country is so thinking. For possibly ten centuries the Great War will be a background forfiction. To us, who have lived those years, any tale of them is apersonal affair. Every-day women and men whom one meets in the streetmay well say to us: "My boy was in the Argonne, " or: "My brother foughtat St. Mihiel. " Over and over, unphrased, our minds echo lines of thatverse found in the pocket of the soldier dead at Gallipoli:

 "_We_ saw the powers of darkness put to flight, _We_ saw the morning break. "

Crushed and glorified beyond all generations of the planet, war storiesprick this generation like family records. It is from us of to-day thatthe load is lifted. We have weathered the heaviness of the night; to us"Joy cometh in the morning. "

M. R. S. A. 

CONTENTS

 I. The Ditch

 II. Her Country Too

 III. The Swallow

 IV. Only One of Them

 V. The V. C. 

 VI. He That Loseth His Life Shall Find It

 VII. The Silver Stirrup

 VIII. The Russian

 IX. Robina's Doll

 X. Dundonald's Destroyer

THE DITCH

 PERSONS

 THE BOY an American soldier

 THE BOY'S DREAM OF HIS MOTHER

 ANGÉLIQUE } } French children JEAN-BAPTISTE }

 THE TEACHER

 THE ONE SCHOOLGIRL WITH IMAGINATION

 THE THREE SCHOOLGIRLS WITHOUT IMAGINATION

 HE

 SHE

 THE AMERICAN GENERAL

 THE ENGLISH STATESMAN

The Time. --A summer day in 1918 and a summer day in 2018

FIRST ACT

_The time is a summer day in 1918. The scene is the first-line trench ofthe Germans--held lately by the Prussian Imperial Guard--half an hourafter it had been taken by a charge of men from the Blank_th _Regiment, United States Army. There has been a mistake and the charge was notpreceded by artillery preparation as usual. However, the Americans havetaken the trench by the unexpectedness of their attack, and the PrussianGuard has been routed in confusion. But the German artillery has at onceopened fire on the Americans, and also a German machine gun hasenfiladed the trench. Ninety-nine Americans have been killed in thetrench. One is alive, but dying. He speaks, being part of the timedelirious. _

_The Boy_. Why can't I stand? What--is it? I'm wounded. The sand-bagsroll when I try--to hold to them. I'm--badly wounded. (_Sinks down. Silence. _) How still it is! We--we took the trench. Glory be! We tookit! (_Shouts weakly as he lies in the trench. _) (_Sits up and stares, shading his eyes_. ) It's horrid still. Why--they're here! Jack--you!What makes you--lie there? You beggar--oh, my God! They're dead. Jack Arnold, and Martin and--Cram and Bennett and Emmetand--Dragamore--Oh--God, God! All the boys! Good American boys. Thewhole blamed bunch--dead in a ditch. Only me. Dying, in a ditch filledwith dead men. What's the sense? (_Silence_. ) This damned silly war. This devilish--killing. When we ought to be home, doing man's work--andplay. Getting some tennis, maybe, this hot afternoon; coming in sweatyand dirty--and happy--to a tub--and dinner--with mother. (_Groans_. ) Itbegins to hurt--oh, it hurts confoundedly. (_Becomes delirious_. )Canoeing on the river. With little Jim. See that trout jump, Jimmie?Cast now. Under the log at the edge of the trees. That's it! Good--oh!(_Groans_. ) It hurts--badly. Why, how can I stand it? How can anybody?I'm badly wounded. Jimmie--tell mother. Oh--good boy--you've hooked him. Now play him; lead him away from the lily-pads. (_Groans_. ) Oh, mother!Won't you come? I'm wounded. You never failed me before. I need you--ifI die. You went away down--to the gate of life, to bring me inside. Now--it's the gate of death--you won't fail? You'll bring me through tothat other life? You and I, mother--and I won't be scared. You're thefirst--and the last. (_Puts out his arm searching and folds a hand, still warm, of a dead soldier_. ) Ah--mother, my dear. I knew--you'dcome. Your hand is warm--comforting. You always--are there when I needyou. All my life. Things are getting--hazy. (_He laughs_. ) When I was akid and came down in an elevator--I was all right, I didn't mind thedrop if I might hang on to your hand. Remember? (_Pats dead soldier'shand, then clutches it again tightly_. ) You come with me when I goacross and let me--hang on--to your hand. And I won't be scared. (_Silence_. ) This damned--damned--silly war! All the good American boys. We charged the Fritzes. How they ran! But--there was a mistake. Noartillery preparation. There ought to be crosses and medals going forthat charge, for the boys--(_Laughs_. ) Why, they're all dead. Andme--I'm dying, in a ditch. Twenty years old. Done out of sixty yearsby--by the silly war. What's it for? Mother, what's it about? I'm ill abit. I can't think what good it is. Slaughtering boys--all the nations'boys--honest, hard-working boys mostly. Junk. Fine chaps an hour ago. What's the good? I'm dying--for the flag. But--what's the good? It'll goon--wars. Again. Peace sometimes, but nothing gained. And all ofus--dead. Cheated out of our lives. Wouldn't the world have done as wellif this long ditch of good fellows had been let live? Mother?

_The Boy's Dream of His Mother_. (_Seems to speak_. ) My verydearest--no. It takes this great burnt-offering to free the world. Theworld will be free. This is the crisis of humanity; you are bending thelever that lifts the race. Be glad, dearest life of the world, to bepart of that glory. Think back to your school-days, to a sentence youlearned. Lincoln spoke it. "These dead shall not have died in vain, andgovernment of the people, by the people, for the people, shall notperish from the earth. "

_The Boy_. (_Whispers_. ) I remember. It's good. "Shall not have died invain"--"The people--shall not perish"--where's your hand, mother? It'staps for me. The lights are going out. Come with me--mother. (_Dies_. )

SECOND ACT

_The scene it the same trench one hundred years later, in the year 2018. It is ten o'clock of a summer morning. Two French children have come tothe trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is gentle andsoft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feelshis patriotism and his responsibilities_. 

_Angélique_. (_The little French girl_. ) Here's where they grow, Jean-B'tiste. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_The little French boy_. ) I know. They bloom biggerblooms in the American ditch. 

_Angélique_. (_Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily_. ) Why dopeople call it the 'Merican ditch, Jean-B'tiste? What's 'Merican?

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Ripples laughter_. ) One's little sister doesn't knowmuch! Never mind. One is so young--three years younger than I am. I'mten, you know. 

_Angélique. Tiens_, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month. 

Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!

_Angélique_. What's 'Merican?

_Jean-Baptiste_. Droll _p'tite_. Why, everybody in all France knows thatname. Of American. 

_Angélique_. (_Unashamed_. ) Do they? What is it?

_Jean-Baptiste_. It's the people that live in the so large countryacross the ocean. They came over and saved all our lives, and France. 

_Angélique_. (_Surprised_. ) Did they save my life, Jean-B'tiste?

_Jean-Baptiste_. Little _drôle_. You weren't born. 

_Angélique_. Oh! Whose life did they then save? Maman's?

_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She was not born either. 

_Angélique_. Whose life, then--the grandfather's?

_Jean-Baptiste_. But--even he was not born. (_Disconcerted byAngélique's direct tactics_. ) One sees they could not save the lives ofpeople who were not here. But--they were brave--but yes--and friends toFrance. And they came across the ocean to fight for France. Big, strongyoung soldiers in brown uniforms--the grandfather told me about ityesterday. I know it all. His father told him, and he was here. In thisfield. (_Jean-Baptiste looks about the meadow, where the wind blowsflowers and wheat. _) There was a large battle--a fight very immense. Itwas not like this then. It was digged over with ditches and the soldiersstood in the ditches and shot at the wicked Germans in the otherditches. Lots and lots of soldiers died. 

_Angélique_. (_Lips trembling_. ) Died--in ditches?

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Grimly. _) Yes, it is true. 

_Angélique_. (_Breaks into sobs. _) I can't bear you to tell me that. Ican't bear the soldiers to--die--in ditches. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Pats her shoulder. _) I'm sorry I told you if it makesyou cry. You are so little. But it was one hundred years ago. They'redead now. 

_Angélique_. (_Rubs her eyes with her dress and smiles_. ) Yes, they'requite dead now. So--tell me some more. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. But I don't want to make you cry more, _p'tite_. You'reso little. 

_Angélique. _ I'm not _very_ little. I'm bigger than Anne-Marie Dupont, and she's eight. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She's not eight till next month. She told me. 

_Angélique_. Oh, well--next month. Me, I want to hear about the brave'Mericans. Did they make this ditch to stand in and shoot the wickedGermans?

_Jean-Baptiste_. They didn't make it, but they fought the wicked Germansin a brave, wonderful charge, the bravest sort, the grandfather said. And they took the ditch away from the wicked Germans, and then--maybeyou'll cry. 

_Angélique_. I won't. I promise you I won't. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. Then, when the ditch--only they called it a trench--waswell full of American soldiers, the wicked Germans got a machine gun atthe end of it and fired all the way along--the grandfather called itenfiladed--and killed every American in the whole long ditch. 

_Angélique_. (_Bursts into tears again; buries her face in her skirt_. )I--I'm sorry I cry, but the 'Mericans were so brave and fought--forFrance--and it was cruel of the wicked Germans to--to shoot them. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. The wicked Germans were always cruel. But thegrandfather says it's quite right now, and as it should be, for they arenow a small and weak nation, and scorned and watched by other nations, so that they shall never be strong again. For the grandfather says theyare not such as can be trusted--no, never the wicked Germans. The worldwill not believe their word again. They speak not the truth. Once theynearly smashed the world, when they had power. So it is looked to by allnations that never again shall Germany be powerful. For they are sly, and cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked. That is what thegrandfather says. 

_Angélique_. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked Germans that they are sobad. It is not nice to be bad. One is punished. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Sternly_. ) It is the truth. One is always punished. As long as the world lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. Butas long as France lasts there will be a nation to love the name ofAmerica, one sees. For the Americans were generous and brave. They lefttheir dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free in France fromthe wicked Germans. 

_Angélique_. (_Lip trembles_. ) I'm sorry--they died. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. But, _p'tite!_ That was one hundred years ago. It isnecessary that they would have been dead by now in every case. It wasmore glorious to die fighting for freedom and France than just todie--fifty years later. Me, I'd enjoy very much to die fighting. Butlook! You pulled up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to theroots--not a rock?

_Angélique_. No, I think not a rock. (She takes the object in her handsand knocks dirt from it. ) But what is it, Jean-B'tiste?

_Jean-Baptiste_. It's--but never mind. I can't always know everything, don't you see, Angélique? It's just something of one of the Americanswho died in the ditch. One is always finding something in these oldbattle-fields. 

_Angélique_. (_Rubs the object with her dress. Takes a handful of sandand rubs it on the object. Spits on it and rubs the sand_. ) _V'là_, Jean-B'tiste--it shines. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Loftily_. ) Yes. It is nothing, that. One finds suchthings. 

_Angélique. _ (_Rubbing more_. ) And there are letters on it. 

_Jean-Baptiste_. Yes. It is nothing, that. One has flowers _en masse_now, and it is time to go home. Come then, _p'tite_, drop the dirty bitof brass and pick up your pretty flowers. _Tiens!_ Give me your hand. I'll pull you up the side of the ditch. (_Jean-Baptiste turns as theystart_. ) I forgot the thing which the grandfather told me I must doalways. (_He stands at attention_. ) _Au revoir_, brave Americans. Onesalutes your immortal glory. (_Exit Jean-Baptiste and Angélique_. )

THIRD ACT

_The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is eleven o'clock ofthe same summer morning. Four American schoolgirls, of from fifteen toseventeen years, have been brought to see the trench, a relic of theGreat War, in charge of their teacher. The teacher, a worn and elderlyperson, has imagination, and is stirred, as far as her tired nerves maybe, by the heroic story of the old ditch. One of the schoolgirls alsohas imagination and is also stirred. The other three are "youngbarbarians at play. " Two out of five is possibly a large proportion tobe blessed with imagination, but the American race has improved in ahundred years_. 

_Teacher_. This, girls, is an important bit of our sight-seeing. It isthe last of the old trenches of the Great War to remain intact in allnorthern France. It was left untouched out of the reverence of thepeople of the country for one hundred Americans of the Blank_th_Regiment, who died here--in this old ditch. The regiment had charged toosoon, by a mistaken order, across what was called No-Man's Land, fromtheir own front trench, about (_consults guide-book_)--about thirty-fiveyards away--that would be near where you see the red poppies so thick inthe wheat. They took the trench from the Germans, and were then wipedout partly by artillery fire, partly by a German machine gun which wasplaced, disguised, at the end of the trench and enfiladed the entirelength. Three-quarters of the regiment, over two thousand men, werekilled in this battle. Since then the regiment has been known as the"Charging Blank_th_. "

_First Schoolgirl_. Wouldn't those poppies be lovely on a yellow hat?

_Second Schoolgirl_. Ssh! The Eye is on you. How awful, Miss Hadley! Andwere they all killed? Quite a tragedy!

_Third Schoolgirl_. Not a yellow hat! Stupid! A corn-colored one--justthe shade of the grain with the sun on it. Wouldn't it be lovely! Whenwe get back to Paris--

_Fourth Schoolgirl (the one with imagination_). You idiots! You poorkittens!

_First Schoolgirl_. If we ever do get back to Paris!

_Teacher_. (_Wearily_. ) Please pay attention. This is one of the world'smost sacred spots. It is the scene of a great heroism. It is the placewhere many of our fellow countrymen laid down their lives. How can youstand on this solemn ground and chatter about hats?

_Third Schoolgirl_. Well, you see, Miss Hadley, we're fed up with solemngrounds. You can't expect us to go into raptures at this stage over anold ditch. And, to be serious, wouldn't some of those field flowers makea lovely combination for hats? With the French touch, don't you know?You'd be darling in one--so _ingénue!_

_Second Schoolgirl_. Ssh! She'll kill you. (_Three girls turn theirbacks and stifle a giggle_. )

_Teacher_. Girls, you may be past your youth yourselves one day. 

_First Schoolgirl_. (_Airily. _) But we're well preserved so far, MissHadley. 

_Fourth Schoolgirl_. (_Has wandered away a few yards. She bends andpicks a flower from the ditch. She speaks to herself_. ) The flagfloated here. There were shells bursting and guns thundering and groansand blood--here. American boys were dying where I stand safe. That'swhat they did. They made me safe. They kept America free. They made the"world safe for freedom, " (_She bends and speaks into the ditch_. ) Boy, you who lay just there in suffering and gave your good life away thatlong-ago summer day--thank you. You died for us. America remembers. Because of you there will be no more wars, and girls such as we are maywander across battle-fields, and nations are happy and well governed, and kings and masters are gone. You did that, you boys. You lost fiftyyears of life, but you gained our love forever. Your deaths were not inrain. Good-by, dear, dead boys. 

_Teacher_. (_Calls_). Child, come! We must catch the train. 

FOURTH ACT

_The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is three o'clock ofthe afternoon, of the same summer day. A newly married couple have cometo see the trench. He is journeying as to a shrine; she has allowedimpersonal interests, such as history, to lapse under the influence oflove and a trousseau. She is, however, amenable to patriotism, and, herhusband applying the match, she takes fire--she also, from the story ofthe trench_. 

_He_. This must be the place. 

_She_. It is nothing but a ditch filled with flowers. 

_He_. The old trench. (_Takes off his hat_. )

_She_. Was it--it was--in the Great War?

_He_. My dear!

_She_. You're horrified. But I really--don't know. 

_He_. Don't know? You must. 

_She_. You've gone and married a person who hasn't a glimmer of history. What will you do about it?

_He_. I'll be brave and stick to my bargain. Do you mean that you'veforgotten the charge of the Blank_th_ Americans against the PrussianGuard? The charge that practically ended the war?

_She_. Ended the war? How could one charge end the war?

_He_. There was fighting after. But the last critical battle was here(_looks about_) in these meadows, and for miles along. And it was justhere that the Blank_th_ United States Regiment made its historic dash. In that ditch--filled with flowers--a hundred of our lads were mown downin three minutes. About two thousand more followed them to death. 

_She_. Oh--I do know. It was _that_ charge. I learned about it inschool; it thrilled me always. 

_He_. Certainly. Every American child knows the story. I memorized thelist of the one hundred soldiers' names of my own free will when I wasten. I can say them now. "Arnold--Ashe--Bennett--Emmet--Dragmore--"

_She_. Don't say the rest, Ted--tell me about it as it happened. (_Sheslips her hand into his_. ) We two, standing here young and happy, looking forward to a, lifetime together, will do honor, that way, tothose soldiers who gave up their happy youth and their lives forAmerica. 

_He_. (_Puts his arm around her_. ) We will. We'll make a little memorialservice and I'll preach a sermon about how gloriously they fell and how, unknowingly, they won the war--and so much more!

_She_. Tell me. 

_He_. It was a hundred years ago about now--summer. A critical battleraged along a stretch of many miles. About the centre of theline--here--the Prussian Imperial Guards, the crack soldiers of theGerman army, held the first trench--this ditch. American forces facedthem, but in weeks of fighting had not been able to make muchimpression. Then, on a day, the order came down the lines that theBlank_th_ United States Regiment, opposed to the Guard, was to chargeand take the German front trench. Of course the artillery was to preparefor their charge as usual, but there was some mistake. There was nocurtain of fire before them, no artillery preparation to help them. Andthe order to charge came. So, right into the German guns, in the face ofthose terrible Prussian Guards, our lads went "over the top" with agreat shout, and poured like a flame, like a catapult, across the spacebetween them--No-Man's Land, they called it then--it was onlythirty-five yards--to the German trench. So fast they rushed, and sounexpected was their coming, with no curtain of artillery to shieldthem, that the Germans were for a moment taken aback. Not a shot wasfired for a space of time almost long enough to let the Americans reachthe trench, and then the rifles broke out and the brown uniforms felllike leaves in autumn. But not all. They rushed on pell-mell, cuttingwire, pouring irresistibly into the German trench. And the Guards, suchas were not mown down, lost courage at the astounding impetus of thedash, and scrambled and ran from their trench. They took it--our boystook that trench--this old ditch. But then the big German guns opened afire like hail and a machine gun at the end--down there it must havebeen--enfiladed the trench, and every man in it was killed. But thecharge ended the war. Other Americans, mad with the glory of it, pouredin a sea after their comrades and held the trench, and poured on and on, and wiped out that day the Prussian Guard. The German morale was brokenfrom then; within four months the war was over. 

_She_. (_Turns and hides her face on his shoulder and shakes withsobs_. ) I'm not--crying for sorrow--for them. I'm crying--for the gloryof it. Because--I'm so proud and glad--that it's too much for me. Tobelong to such a nation--to such men. I'm crying for knowing, it was mynation--my men. And America is--the same today. I know it. If she neededyou today, Ted, you would fight like that. You would go over the topwith the charging Blank_th_, with a shout, if the order came--wouldn'tyou, my own man?

_He_. (_Looking into the old ditch with his head bent reverently_. ) Ihope so. 

_She_. And I hope I would send you with all my heart. Death like that ismore than life. 

_He_. I've made you cry. 

_She_. Not you. What they did--those boys. 

_He_. It's fitting that Americans should come here, as they do come, asto a Mecca, a holy place. For it was here that America was saved. That'swhat they did, the boys who made that charge. They saved America fromthe most savage and barbarous enemy of all time. As sure as France andEngland were at the end of their rope--and they were--so surely Germany, the victor, would have invaded America, and Belgium would have happenedin our country. A hundred years wouldn't have been enough to free usagain, if that had happened. You and I, dearest, owe it to thosesoldiers that we are here together, free, prosperous citizens of an evergreater country. 

_She_. (_Drops on her knees by the ditch_. ) It's a shrine. Men of myland, I own my debt. I thank you for all I have and am. God bless you inyour heaven. (_Silence_. )

_He_. (_Tears in his eyes. His arm around her neck as he bends to her_. )You'll not forget the story of the Charging Blank_th_?

_She_. Never again. In my life. (_Rising_. ) I think their spirits mustbe here often. Perhaps they're happy when Americans are here. It's aholy place, as you said. Come away now. I love to leave it in sunshineand flowers with the dear ghosts of the boys. (_Exit He and She_. )

FIFTH ACT

_The scene it the same trench in the year 2018. It is five o'clock ofthe same summer afternoon. An officer of the American Army and anEnglish cabinet member come, together, to visit the old trench. TheAmerican has a particular reason for his interest; the Englishmanaccompanies the distinguished American. The two review the story of thetrench and speak of other things connected, and it is hoped that theyset forth the far-reaching work of the soldiers who died, not realizingtheir work, in the great fight of the Charging Blank_th. 

_Englishman_. It's a peaceful scene. 

_American_. (_Advances to the side of the ditch. Looks down. Takes offhis cap_. ) I came across the ocean to see it. (_He looks over thefields_. ) It's quiet. 

_Englishman_. The trenches were filled in all over the invaded territorywithin twenty-five years after the war. Except a very few kept as amanner of monument. Object-lessons, don't you know, in what the thingmeant. Even those are getting obliterated. They say this is quite thebest specimen in all France. 

_American_. It doesn't look warlike. What a lot of flowers!

_Englishman_. Yes. The folk about here have a tradition, don't you know, that poppies mark the places where blood flowed most. 

_American_. Ah! (_Gazes into the ditch_. ) Poppies there. A hundred ofour soldiers died at once down there. Mere lads mostly. Their names andages are on a tablet in the capitol at Washington, and underneath is asentence from Lincoln's Gettysburg speech: "These dead shall not havedied in vain, and government of the people, by the people, for thepeople shall not perish from the earth. "

_Englishman_. Those are undying words. 

_American_. And undying names--the lads' names. 

_Englishman_. What they and the other Americans did can never die. Notwhile the planet endures. No nation at that time realized how vital wasyour country's entrance into the war. Three months later it would havebeen too late. Your young, untried forces lifted worn-out France andEngland and swept us to-victory. It was America's victory at the last. It is our glory to confess that, for from then on America has been ourkin. 

_American_. (_Smiles_. ) England is our well-beloved elder sister for alltime now. 

_Englishman_. The soldiers who died there (_gestures to the ditch_) andtheir like did that also. They tied the nations together with a bond ofcommon gratitude, common suffering, common glory. 

_American_. You say well that there was common gratitude. England andFrance had fought our battle for three years at the time we entered thewar. We had nestled behind the English fleet. Those grim gray ships ofyours stood between us and the barbarians very literally. 

_Englishman_. Without doubt Germany would have been happy to invade theonly country on earth rich enough to pay her war debt. And you wereastonishingly open to invasion. It is one of the historical facts that astudent of history of this twenty-first century finds difficult torealize. 

_American_. The Great War made revolutionary changes. That condition ofunpreparedness was one. That there will never be another war is thebelief of all governments. But if all governments should be mistaken, not again would my country, or yours, be caught unprepared. A generalstaff built of soldiers and free of civilians hampering is one advantagewe have drawn from our ordeal of 1917. 

_Englishman_. Your army is magnificently efficient. 

_American_. And yours. Heaven grant neither may ever be needed! Ourmilitary efficiency is the pride of an unmilitary nation. One Congress, since the Great War and its lessons, has vied with another to keep ourhigh place. 

_Englishman_. Ah! Your Congress. That has changed since the olddays--since La Follette. 

_American_. The name is a shame and a warning to us. Our children aretaught to remember it so. The "little group of wilful men, " the elevenwho came near to shipwrecking the country, were equally bad, perhaps, but they are forgotten. La Follette stands for them and bears the cursesof his countrymen, which they all earned. 

_Englishman_. Their ignominy served America; it roused the country toclean its Augean stables. 

_American_. The war purified with fire the legislative soul. 

_Englishman_. Exactly. Men are human still, certainly, yet genuinepatriotism appears to be a _sine qua non_ now, where bombast answered inthe old day. Corruption is no longer accepted. Public men then weresurprisingly simple, surprisingly cheap and limited in their methods. There were two rules for public and private life. It was thoughtquixotic, I gather from studying the documents of the time, to expectanything different. And how easily the change came!

_American_. The nation rose and demanded honesty, and honesty was there. The enormous majority of decent people woke from a discontented apathyand took charge. Men sprang into place naturally and served the nation. The old log-rolling, brainless, greedy public officials were throwninto the junk-heap. As if by magic the stress of the war wrung out therinsings and the scourings and left the fabric clean. 

_Englishman_. The stress of the war affected more than internalpolitics. You and I, General, are used to a standard of conduct betweenresponsible nations as high as that taken for granted betweenresponsible persons. But, if one considers, that was far from the case ahundred years ago. It was in 1914, that von Bethmann-Hollweg spoke of "ascrap of paper. "

_American_. Ah--Germans!

_Englishman_. Certainly one does not expect honor or sincerity fromGerman psychology. Even the little Teutonic Republic of to-day istricky, scheming always to get a foothold for power, a beginning for thearmy they will never again be allowed to have. Even after the Kaiser andthe Crown Prince and the other rascals were punished they tried to cheatus, if you remember. Yet it is not that which I had in mind. The point Iwas making was that today it would be out of drawing for a governmenteven of charlatans, like the Prussians, to advance the sort of claimswhich they did. In commonplace words, it was expected then thatgovernments, as against each other, would be self-seeking. To-daydecency demands that they should be, as men must be, unselfish. 

_America_. (_Musingly_. ) It's odd how long it took theworld--governments--human beings--to find the truth of the very oldphrase that "he who findeth his life must lose it. "

_Englishman_. The simple fact of that phrase before the Great War wasnot commonly grasped. People thought it purely religious and reservedfor saints and church services. As a working hypothesis it was notgenerally known. The every-day ideals of our generation, the friendshipsand brotherhoods of nations as we know them would have been thoughtUtopian. 

_American_. Utopian? Perhaps our civilization is better than Utopian. The race has grown with a bound since we all went through hell together. How far the civilization of 1914 stood above that of 1614! Thedifference between galley-slaves and able-bodied seamen, of your andour navy! Greater yet than the change in that three hundred years is thechange in the last one hundred. I look at it with a soldier's somewhatdirect view. Humanity went helpless and alone into a fiery furnace andcame through holding on to God's hand. We have clung closely to thatpowerful grasp since. 

_Englishman_. Certainly the race has emerged from an epoch of intellectto an epoch of spirituality--which comprehends and extends intellect. There have never been inventions such as those of our era. And theinventors have been, as it were, men inspired. Something beyondthemselves has worked through them for the world. A force like that wasknown only sporadically before our time. 

_American_. (_Looks into old ditch_. ) It would be strange to the ladswho charged through horror across this flowery field to hear our talkand to know that to them and their deeds we owe the happiness and thegreatness of the world we now live in. 

_Englishman_. Their short, Homeric episode of life admitted fewgeneralizations, I fancy. To be ready and strong and brave--there wasscant time for more than that in those strenuous days. Yet under thatsimple formula lay a sea of patriotism and self-sacrifice, from whichsprang their soldiers' force. "Greater love hath no man than this, thata man lay down his life for his friends. " It was their love--love ofcountry, of humanity, of freedom--which silenced in the end the greatengine of evil--Prussianism. The motive power of life is proved, throughthose dead soldiers, to be not hate, as the Prussians taught, but love. 

_American_. Do you see something shining among the flowers at the bottomof the ditch?

_Englishman_. Why, yes. Is it--a leaf which catches the light?

_American_. (_Stepping down_. ) I'll see. (_He picks up a metalidentification disk worn by a soldier. Angélique has rubbed it so thatthe letters may mostly be read_. ) This is rather wonderful. (_He readsaloud_. ) "R. V. H. Randolph--Blank_th_ Regiment--U. S. " I can't make outthe rest. 

_Englishman_. (_Takes the disk_. ) Extraordinary! The name and regimentare plain. The identification disk, evidently, of a soldier who died inthe trench here. Your own man, General. 

_American_. (_Much stirred_. ) And--my own regiment. Two years ago I wasthe colonel of "The Charging Blank_th_. "

HER COUNTRY TOO

David Lance sat wondering. He was not due at the office till ten thisSaturday night and he was putting in a long and thorough wonder. Aboutthe service in all its branches; about finance; about the new LibertyLoan. First, how was he to stop being a peaceful reporter on the_Daybreak_ and get into uniform; that wonder covered a class includingthe army, navy and air-service, for he had been refused by all three; hewondered how a small limp from apple-tree acrobatics at ten might be soexplained away that he might pass; reluctantly he wondered also aboutthe Y. M. C. A. But he was a fighting man _par excellence_. For him itwould feel like slacking to go into any but fighting service. Six feettwo and weighing a hundred and ninety, every ounce possible to be musclewas muscle; easy, joyful twenty-four-year-old muscle which knew nothingof fatigue. He was certain he would make a fit soldier for Uncle Sam, and how, how he wanted to be Uncle Sam's soldier!

He was getting desperate. Every man he knew in the twenties and many aone under and over, was in uniform; bitterly he envied the proud peacein their eyes when he met them. He could not bear to explain things oncemore as he had explained today to Tom Arnold and "Beef" Johnson, and"Seraph" Olcott, home on leave before sailing for France. He hadsuffered while they listened courteously and hurried to say that theyunderstood, that it was a shame, and that: "You'll make it yet, oldson. " And they had then turned to each other comparing notes of camps. It made little impression that he had toiled and sweated early and latein this struggle to get in somewhere--army, navy, air-service--anythingto follow the flag. He wasn't allowed. He was still a reporter on the_Daybreak_ while the biggest doings of humanity were getting done, andevery young son of America had his chance to help. With a strong, tireless body aching for soldier's work, America, his mother, refusedhim work. He wasn't allowed. 

Lance groaned, sitting in his one big chair in his one small room. Therewere other problems. A Liberty Loan drive was on, and where could he layhands on money for bonds? He had plunged on the last loan and there wasyet something to pay on the $200 subscription. And there was no one andnothing to fall back on except his salary as reporter for the_Daybreak. _ His father had died when he was six, and his mother eightyears ago; his small capital had gone for his four years, at Yale. Therewas no one--except a legend of cousins in the South. Never was any onepoorer or more alone. Yet he must take a bond or two. How might he holdup his head not to fight and not to buy bonds. A knock at the door. 

"Come in, " growled Lance. 

The door opened, and a picture out of a storybook stood framed andsmiling. One seldom sees today in the North the genuine old-fashionednegro-woman. A sample was here in Lance's doorway. A bandanna of red andyellow made a turban for her head; a clean brownish calico dress stoodcrisply about a solid and waistless figure, and a fresh white aproncovered it voluminously in front; a folded white handkerchief lay, fichu-wise, around the creases of a fat black neck; a basket coveredwith a cloth was on her arm. She stood and smiled as if to give thetreat time to have its effect on Lance. "Look who's here!" was in largeprint all over her. And she radiated peace and good-will. 

Lance was on his feet with a shout. "Bless your fat heart, AuntBasha--I'm glad to see you, " he flung at her, and seized the basket andslung it half across the room to a sofa with a casualness, alarming toAunt Basha--christened Bathsheba seventy-five years ago, but "rightlyknown, " she had so instructed Lance, as "Aunt Basha. "

"Young marse, don' you ruinate the washin', please sir, " she adjured inliquid tones. 

"Never you mind. It's the last one you'll do for me, " retorted Lance. "Did I tell you you couldn't have the honor of washing for me anymore, Aunt Basha?"

Aunt Basha was wreathed in smiles. 

"Yassir, young marse. You tole me dat mo'n tree times befo', a'ready, sir. "

"Well--it's final this time. Can't stand your prices. I _can't_ standyour exorbitant prices. Now what do you have the heart to charge fordusting off those three old shirts and two and a half collars? Hey?"

Aunt Basha, entirely serene, was enjoying the game. "What does Icharges, sir? Fo' dat wash, which you slung 'round acrost de room, sir?Well, sir, young marse, I charges fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo' cents, sir, dis week. Fo' dat wash. "

Lance let loose a howl and flung himself into his chair as ifprostrated, long legs out and arms hanging to the floor. Aunt Bashashook with laughter. This was a splendid joke and she never, never tiredof it. "You see!" he threw out, between gasps. "Look at that! _Fo'_dollars 'n sev'nty _fo'_ cents. " He sat up suddenly and pointed a bigfinger, "Aunt Basha, " he whispered, "somebody's been kidding you. Somebody's lied. This palatial apartment, much as it looks like it, isnot the home of John D. Rockefeller. " He sprung up, drew an imaginarymantle about him, grasped one elbow with the other hand, dropped hishead into the free palm and was Cassius or Hamlet or Faust--all one toAunt Basha. His left eyebrow screwed up and his right down, and heglowered. "List to her, " he began, and shot out a hand, immediately toreplace it where it was most needed, under his elbow. "But list, yeHeavens and protect the lamb from this ravening wolf. She chargeth--ohhigh Heavens above!--she expecteth me to pay"--he gulped sobs--"theextortioner, the she-wolf--expecteth me to pay her--_fo_' dollars 'nsev'nty _fo_' cents!"

Aunt Basha, entranced with this drama, quaked silently like a largecoffee jelly, and with that there happened a high, rich, protractedsound which was laughter, but laughter not to be imitated of any vocalchords of a white race. The delicious note soared higher, higher itseemed than the scale of humanity, and was riotous velvet and cream, with no effort or uncertainty. Lance dropped his Mephistopheles pose andgrinned. 

"It's Q sharp!" he commented. "However does she do it!"

"Naw, sir, young marse, " Aunt Basha began, descending to speech. "Deshe-wolf, she don' expecteth you to pay no fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo'cents, sir. Dat's thes what I _charges_. Dat ain' what you _pay_. Youthes pay me sev'nty fo' cents sir. Dat's all. "

"Oh!" Lance let it out like a ten-year-old. It was hard to say whichenjoyed this weekly interview more, the boy or the old woman. The boywas lonely and the humanity unashamed of her race and personality madean atmosphere which delighted him. "Oh!" gasped Lance. "That's a relief. I thought it was goodbye to my Sunday trousers. "

Aunt Basha, comfortable and efficient, was unpacking the basket andputting away the wash in the few bureau drawers which easily held theboy's belongings. "Dey's all mended nice, " she announced. "Young marse, sir, you better wa' out dese yer ole' undercloses right now, endurin' dewarm weather, 'caze dey ain' gwine do you fo' de col'. You 'bleeged tobuy some new ones sir, when it comes off right cool. "

Lance smiled, for there was no one but this old black woman to take careof him and advise his haphazard housekeeping, and he liked it. "Can'tbuy new ones, " he made answer. "There you go again, mixing me up withRockefeller. I'm not even the Duke of Westminster, do you see. I haven'tgot any money. Only sev'nty fo' cents for the she-wolf. "

Aunt Basha chuckled. Long ago there had been a household of young peoplein the South whose clothes she, a very young woman then, had mended;there had been a boy who talked nonsense to her much as this boy--MarsePendleton. But trouble had come; everything had broken like a card-houseunder an ocean wave. "De fambly" was lost, and she and her younghusband, old Uncle Jeems of today, had drifted by devious ways to thisNorthern city. "Ef you ain't got de money handy dis week, young marse, you kin pay me nex' week thes as well, " suggested the she-wolf. 

Then the big boy was standing over her, and she was being patted on theshoulder with a touch that all but brought tears to the black, dim eyes. "Don't you dare pay attention to my drool, or I'll never talk to youagain, " Lance ordered. "Your sev'nty fo' cents is all right, and lotsmore. I've got heaps of cash that size, Aunt Basha. But I want to buyLiberty Bonds, and I don't know how in hell I'm going to get big money. "The boy was thinking aloud. "How am I to raise two hundred for a coupleof bonds, Aunt Basha? Tell me that?" He scratched into his thatch ofhair and made a puzzled face. 

"What fo' you want big money, young marse?"

"Bonds. Liberty Bonds. You know what that is?"

"Naw, sir. "

"You don't? Well you ought to, " said Lance. "There isn't a soul in thiscountry who oughtn't to have a bond. It's this way. You know we'refighting a war?"

"Yassir. Young Ananias Johnson, he's Sist' Amanda's boy, he done tolehis Unk Jeems 'bout dat war. And Jeems, he done tole me. "

Lance regarded her. Was it possible that the ocean upheaval had stirredeven the quietest backwater so little? "Well, anyhow, it's the biggestwar that ever was on earth. "

Aunt Basha shook her head. "You ain't never seed de War of deRebullium, " she stated with superiority. "You's too young. Well, Ireckon dis yer war ain't much on to dat war. Naw, sir! Dat ar was a sure'nough war--yas, sir!"

Lance considered. He decided not to contest the point. "Anyhow AuntBasha, this is an awfully big war. And if we don't win it the Germanswill come over here and murder the most of us, and make you and UncleJeems work in the fields from daylight till dark. "

"Dem low down white trash!" commented Aunt Basha. 

"Yes, and worse. And Uncle Sam can't beat the Germans unless we allhelp. He needs money to buy guns for the soldiers, and food and clothes. So he's asking everybody--just everybody--to lend him money--every centthey can raise to buy things to win the war. He gives each person wholends him any, a piece of paper which is a promise to pay it back, andthat piece of paper is called a bond--Uncle Sam's promise to pay. Everybody ought to help by giving up every cent they have. The soldiersare giving their lives to save us from the horrible Germans. They'regoing over there to live in mud and water and sleep in holes of theearth, to be shot and wounded and tortured and killed. They're facingthat for our sakes, to save us from worse than death, for you and UncleJeems and me, Aunt Basha. Now, oughtn't we to give all we've got to takecare of those boys--our soldiers?"

Lance had forgotten his audience, except that he was wording his speechcarefully in the simplest English. It went home. 

"Oh, my Lawd!" moaned Aunt Basha, sitting down and rocking hard. "Doesdey sleep in de col' yeth? Oh, my Lawd have mercy!" It was the firstrealization she had had of the details of the war. "You ain't gwine overdar, is you young marse, honey?" she asked anxiously. 

"I wish to God I was, " spoke Lance through set teeth. "No, Aunt Basha, they won't take me. Because I'm lame. I'd give my life to go. Andbecause I can't fight I _must_ buy bonds. Do you see? I must. I'd sellmy soul to get money for Liberty Bonds. Oh, God!" Lance was as if alone, with only that anxious old black face gazing up at him. "Oh, God--it'smy country!"

Suddenly the rich flowing voice spoke. "Young marse, it's my countrytoo, sir, " said Aunt Basha. 

Lance turned and stared. How much did the words mean to the old woman?In a moment he knew. 

"Yas, my young marseter, dis yer America's de ole black 'oman's country, thes like it's fine young white man's, like you, sir. I gwine give mylas' cent, like you say. Yas, I gwine do dat. I got two hun'erd dollars, sir; I b'en a-savin' and a-savin' for Jeems 'n me 'ginst when we gitole, but I gwine give dat to my country. I want Unc' Sam to buy goodfood for dem boys in the muddy water. Bacon 'n hominy, sir--'n cornbread, what's nourishin'. 'N I want you to git de--de Libertywhat-je-call-'ems. Yassir. 'Caze you ain't got no ma to he'ep you out, 'n de ole black 'oman's gwine to be de bes' ma she know how to her youngmarse. I got de money tied up--" she leaned forward and whispered--"in astockin' in de bottom draw' ob de chist unner Jeem's good coat. TomorrowI gwine fetch it, 'n you go buy yo' what-je-calls-'ems. "

Lance went across and knelt on the floor beside her and put his armsaround the stout figure. He had been brought up with a colored mammy andthis affection seemed natural and homelike. "Aunt Basha, you're one ofthe saints, " he said. "And I love you for it. But I wouldn't take yourblessed two hundred, not for anything on earth. I'd be a hound to takeit. If you want some bonds"--it flashed to him that the money would besafer so than in the stocking under Jeem's coat--"why, I'll get them foryou. Come into the _Daybreak_ office and ask for me, say--Monday. AndI'll go with you to the bank and get bonds. Here's my card. Show anybodythat at the office. " And he gave directions. 

Five minutes later the old woman went off down the street talking halfaloud to herself in fragments of sentences about "Libertywhat-je-call-'ems" and "my country too. " In the little shack uptown thatwas home for her and her husband she began at once to set forth her newlight. Jeems, who added to the family income by taking care of furnacesand doing odd jobs, was grizzled and hobbling of body, but argumentativeof soul. 

"'Oman, " he addressed Aunt Basha, "Unc' Sam got lots o' money. What usehe gwine have, great big rich man lak Unc' Sam, fo' yo' two hun'erd? Butwe got mighty lot o' use fo' dat money, we'uns. An' you gwine gib dataway? Thes lak a 'oman!" which, in other forms, is an argument used bymale people of many classes. 

Aunt Basha suggested that Young Marse David said something about a pieceof paper and Uncle Sam paying back, but Jeems pooh-poohed that. 

"Naw, sir. When big rich folks goes round collectin' po' folkses money, is dey liable to pay back? What good piece o' paper gwine do you? Is deyaimin' to let you see de color ob dat money agin? Naw, sir. Dey am not. "He proceeded to another branch of the subject. "War ain' gwine las'long, nohow. Young Ananias he gwine to Franch right soon, an' de yethercolored brothers. De Germans dey ain't gwine las' long, once ef dey seeus Anglo-Saxons in de scrablin'. Naw, sir. 

"White man what come hyer yether day, he say how dey ain't gwine 'low decolored sojers to fight, " suggested Aunt Basha. German propagandareaches far and takes strange shapes. 

"Don' jer go to b'lieve dat white man, 'oman, " thundered Jeems, thumpingwith his fist. "He dunno nawthin', an' I reckon he's a liar. Unc' Sam hesay we kin fight an' we _gwine_ fight. An' de war ain't las' long atterwe git to fightin' good. "

Aunt Basha, her hands folded on the rounded volume of apron considereddeeply. After a time she arrived at a decision. 

"Jeems, " she began, "yo' cert'nly is a strong reasoner. Yassir. But Igot it bo'ne in upon me powerful dat I gotter give dese yer savin's toUnc' Sam. It's my country too, Jeems, same as dem sojers what'sfightin', dem boys in de mud what ain' got a soul to wash fo' 'em. An'lak as not dey mas not dere. Dem boys is fightin', and gittin' wet andhunted up lak young marse say, fo' Aunt Basha and--bress derehearts"--Aunt Basha broke down, and the upshot was that Jeems washed hishands of an obstinate female and--the savings not being his in anycase--gave unwilling consent. 

Youth of the sterner set is apt to be casual in making appointments. Ithad not entered Lance's head to arrange in case he was not at theoffice. As for Aunt Basha, her theory was that he reigned there over anarmy of subordinates from morning till evening. So that she was takenaback when told that Mr. Lance was out and no one could say when hewould be in. She had risen at dawn and done her housework and much ofthe fine washing which she "took in, " and had then arrayed herself inher best calico dress and newest turban and apron for the great occasionand had reported at the _Daybreak_ office at nine-thirty. And youngmarse wasn't there. 

"I'll set and rest ontwell he comes in, " she announced, and retired toa chair against the wall. 

There she folded her hands statelily and sat erect, motionless, an imageof fine old dignity. But much thinking was going on inside the calmexterior. What was she going to do if young marse did not come back? Shehad the $200 with her, carefully pinned and double pinned into a pocketin her purple alpaca petticoat. She did not want to take it home. Jeemshad submitted this morning, but with mutterings, and a second time theremight be trouble. The savings were indeed hers, but a rebellious husbandin high finance is an embarrassment. Deeply Aunt Basha considered, andmemory whispered something about a bank. Young marse was going to thebank with her to give her money to Uncle Sam. She had just passed abank. Why could she not go alone? Somebody certainly would tell her whatto do. Possibly Uncle Sam was there himself--for Aunt Basha's conceptionof our national myth was half mystical, half practical--as a child withSanta Claus. In any case banks were responsible places, and somebodywould look after her. She crossed to the desk where two or three youngmen appeared to be doing most of the world's business. 

"Marsters!"

The three looked up. 

"Good mawnin', young marsters. I'm 'bleeged to go now. I cert'nly thankyou-all fo' lettin' me set in de cheer. I won't wait fo' marse DavidLance no mo', sir. Good mawnin', marsters. "

A smiling courtesy dropped, and she was gone. 

"I'll be darned!" remarked reporter number one. 

"Where did that blow in from?" added reporter number two. 

But reporter number three had imagination. "The dearest old soul I'veseen in a blue moon, " said he. 

Aunt Basha proceeded down the street and more than one in the crowdglanced twice at the erect, stout figure swinging, like a quaint andstately ship in full sail, among the steam-tuggery of up-to-datehumanity. There were high steps leading to the bank entrance, impressiveand alarming to Aunt Basha. She paused to take breath for thisadventure. Was a humble old colored woman permitted to walk freely in atthose grand doors, open iron-work and enormous of size? She did notknow. She stood a moment, suddenly frightened and helpless, not daringto go on, looking about for a friendly face. And behold! there itwas--the friendliest face in the world, it seemed to the lost oldsoul--a vision of loveliness. It was the face of a beautiful young whitelady in beautiful clothes who had stepped from a huge limousine. She wascoming up the steps, straight to Aunt Basha. She saw the old woman, sawher anxious hesitation, and halted. The next event was a heavenly smile. Aunt Basha knew the repartee to that, and the smile that shone in answerwas as heavenly in its way as the girl's. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" spoke a voice of gentleness. 

And the world had turned over and come up right side on top. "Mawnin', Miss. Yas'm, I was fixin' to go in dat big do' yander, but I dunno asI'm 'lowed. Is I 'lowed, young miss, to go in dar an' gib my two hun'erdto Unc' Sam?"

"What?" The tone was kindness itself, but bewildered. 

Aunt Basha elucidated. "I got two hun'erd, young miss, and I cert'nlywant to gib it to Unc' Sam to buy clo'se for dem boys what's fightin'for us in Franch. "

"I wonder, " spoke the girl, gazing thoughtfully, "if you want to get aLiberty Bond?"

"Yas'm--yas, miss. Dat's sho' it, a whatjer-ma-call-'em. I know'd 'twassome cu'is name lak dat. " The vision nodded her head. 

"I'm going in to do that very thing myself, " she said. "Come with me. I'll help you get yours. "

Aunt Basha followed joyfully in the wake, and behold, everything waseasy. Ready attention met them and shortly they sat in a private officecarpeted in velvet and upholstered in grandeur. A personage gave graveattention to what the vision was saying. 

"I met--I don't know your name, " she interrupted herself, turning to theold negro woman. 

Aunt Basha rose and curtsied. "Dey christened me Bathsheba Jeptha, young miss, " she stated. "But I'se rightly known as Aunt Basha. Jes'Aunt Basha, young miss. And marster. "

A surname was disinterred by the efforts of the personage which appearedto startle the vision. 

"Why, it's our name, Mr. Davidson, " she exclaimed. "She said Cabell. "

Aunt Basha turned inquiring, vague eyes. "Is it, honey? Is yo' aCabell?"

And then the personage, who was, after all, cashier of the NinthNational Bank and very busy, cut in. "Ah, yes! A well known Southernname. Doubtless a large connection. And now Mrs. --ah--Cabell--"

"I'd be 'bleeged ef yo' jis' name me Aunt Basha, marster. "

And marster, rather _intrigué_ because he, being a New Englander, hadnever in his life addressed as "aunt" a person who was not sister to hismother or his father, nevertheless became human and smiled. "Well, then, Aunt Basha. "

At a point a bit later he was again jolted when he asked the amountwhich his newly adopted "aunt" wanted to invest. For an answer shehauled high the folds of her frock, unconscious of his gasp or of thevision's repressed laughter, and went on to attack the clean purplealpaca petticoat which was next in rank, Mr. Davidson thought it wise atthis point to make an errand across the room. He need not have botheredas far as Aunt Basha was concerned. When he came back she was again _àla mode_ and held an ancient beaded purse at which she gazed. Out of aless remote pocket she drew steel spectacles, which were put on. Mr. Davidson repeated his question of how much. 

"It's all hyer, marster. It's two hun'erd dollars, sir. I ben savin' upfo' twenty years an' mo', and me'n Jeems, we ben countin' it every mont, so I reckon I knows. "

The man and the girl regarded the old woman a moment. "It's a large sumfor you to invest, " Mr. Davidson said. 

"Yassir. Yas, marster. It's right smart money. But I sho' am glad to gibdis hyer to Unc' Sam for dem boys. "

The cashier of the Ninth National Bank lifted his eyes from the blank hewas filling out and looked at Aunt Basha thoughtfully. "You understand, of course, that the Government--Uncle Sam--is only borrowing your money. That you may have it back any time you wish. "

Aunt Basha drew herself up. "I don' wish it, sir. I'm gibin' dis hyergif, ' a free gif' to my country. Yassir. It's de onliest country I got, an' I reckon I got a right to gib dis hyer what I earned doin' finewashin' and i'nin. I gibs it to my country. I don't wan' to hyer anytalk 'bout payin' back. Naw, sir. "

It took Mr. Davidson and the vision at least ten minutes to make clearto Aunt Basha the character and habits of a Liberty Bond, and then, though gratified with the ownership of what seemed a brand new $200 anda valuable slip of paper--which meandered, shamelessly into the purplealpaca petticoat--yet she was disappointed. 

"White folks sho' am cu'is, " she reflected, "Now who'd 'a thought 'boutdat way ob raisin' money! Not me--no, Lawd! It do beat me. " With thatshe threw an earnest glance at Mr. Davidson, lean and tall and gray, with a clipped pointed beard. "'Scuse me, marster, " said Aunt Basha, "mout I ask a quexshun?"

"Surely, " agreed Mr. Davidson blandly. 

"Is you'--'scuse de ole 'oman, sir--is you' Unc' Sam?"

The "quexshun" left the personage too staggered to laugh. But the girlfilled the staid place with gay peals. Then she leaned over and pattedthe wrinkled and bony worn black knuckles. "Bless your dear heart, " shesaid; "no, he isn't, Aunt Basha. He's awfully important and good to usall, and he knows everything. But he's not Uncle Sam. "

The bewilderment of the old face melted to smiles. "Dar, now, " shebrought out; "I mout 'a know'd, becaze he didn't have no red stripedpants. An' de whiskers is diff'ent, too. 'Scuse me, sir, and thank youkindly, marster. Thank you, young miss. De Lawd bress you fo' helpin' deole 'oman. " She had risen and she dropped her old time curtsey at thispoint. "Mawnin' to yo', marster and young miss. "

But the girl sprang up. "You can't go, " she said. "I'm going to take youto my house to see my grandmother. She's Southern, and our name isCabell, and likely--maybe--she knew your people down South. "

"Maybe, young miss. Dar's lots o' Cabells, " agreed Aunt Basha, and inthree minutes found herself where she had never thought to be, inside afine private car. 

She was dumb with rapture and excitement, and quite unable to answer thegirl's friendly words except with smiles and nods. The girl saw how itwas and let her be, only patting the calico arm once and againreassuringly. "I wonder if she didn't want to come. I wonder if I'vefrightened her, " thought Eleanor Cabell. When into the silence brokesuddenly the rich, high, irresistible music which was Aunt Basha'slaugh, and which David Lance had said was pitched on "Q sharp. " The girljoined the infectious sound and a moment after that the car stopped. 

"This is home, " said Eleanor. 

Aunt Basha observed, with the liking for magnificence of a servanttrained in a large house, the fine façade and the huge size of "home. "In a moment she was inside, and "young miss" was carefully escorting herinto a sunshiny big room, where a wood fire burned, and a bird sang, andthere were books and flowers. 

"Wait here, Aunt Basha, dear, " Eleanor said, "and I'll get Grandmother. "It was exactly like the loveliest of dreams, Aunt Basha told Jeems anhour later. It could not possibly have been true, except that it was. When "Grandmother" came in, slender and white-haired and a bitbreathless with this last surprise of a surprising granddaughter, AuntBasha stood and curtsied her stateliest. 

Then suddenly she cried out, "Fo' God! Oh, my Miss Jinny!" and fell onher knees. 

Mrs. Cabell gazed down, startled. "Who is it? Oh, whom have you broughtme, Eleanor?" She bent to look more closely at Aunt Basha, kneeling, speechless, tears streaming from the brave old eyes, holding up claspedhand imploring. "It isn't--Oh, my dear, I believe it _is_ our own oldnurse, Basha, who took care of your father!"

"Yas'm. Yas, Miss Jinny, " endorsed Aunt Basha, climbing to her feet. "Yas, my Miss Jinny, bress de Lawd. It's Basha. " She turned to the girl. "Dis yer chile ain't nebber my young Marse Pendleton's chile!"

But it was; and there was explanation and laughter and tears, too, buttears of happiness. Then it was told how, after that crash of disasterwas over; the family had tried in vain to find Basha and Jeems; hadtried always. It was told how a great fortune had come to them in theturn of a hand by the discovery of an unsuspected salt mine on the oldestate; how "young Marse Pendleton, " a famous surgeon now, had by thattime made for himself a career and a home in this Northern state; howhis wife had died young, and his mother, "Miss Jinny, " had come to livewith him and take care of his one child, the vision. And then the simpleannals of Aunt Basha and Uncle Jeems were also told, the long struggleto keep respectable, only respectable; the years of toil and frugalityand saving--saving the two hundred dollars which she had offered thismorning as a "free gif" to her country. In these annals loomed large forsome time past the figure of a "young marse" who had been good to herand helped her much and often in spite of his own "_res augustadomi_, "--which was not Aunt Basha's expression. The story wastold of his oration in the little hall bedroom about Liberty"whatjer-m'-call-'ems, " and of how the boy had stirred the soul of theold woman with his picture of the soldiers in the trenches. 

"So it come to me, Miss Jinny, how ez me'n Jeems was thes two wuthlessole niggers, an' hadn't fur to trabble on de road anyways, an' de Lawdwould pervide, an' ef He didn't we could scratch grabble some ways. An'dat boy, dat young Marse David, he tole me everbody ought to gib deylas' cent fo' Unc' Sam an' de sojers. So"--Aunt Basha's high, inexpressibly sweet laughter of pure glee filled the room--"so I thesup'n handed over my two hun'erd. "

"It was the most beautiful and wonderful thing that's been done in allwonderful America, " pronounced Eleanor Cabell as one having authority. She went on. "But that young man, your young Marse David, why doesn't hefight if he's such a patriot?"

"Bress gracious, honey, " Aunt Basha hurried to explain, "he's a-honin'to fight. But he cayn't. He's lame. He goes a-limpin'. Dey won't tookhim. "

"Oh!" retracted Eleanor. Then: "What's his name? Maybe father could curehim. "

"He name Lance. Marse David Lance. "

Why should Miss Jinny jump? "David Lance? It can't be, Aunt Basha. "

With no words Aunt Basha began hauling up her skirts and Eleanor, remembering Mr. Davidson's face, went into gales of laughter. Aunt Bashabaited, looked at her with an inquiring gaze of adoration. "Yas'm, myyoung miss. He name dat. I done put the cyard in my ridicule. Yas'm, it's here. " The antique bead purse was opened and Lance's card waspresented to Miss Jinny. 

"Eleanor! This is too wonderful--look!"

Eleanor looked, and read: "Mr. David Pendleton Lance. " "Why, Grandmother, it's Dad's name--David Pendleton Cabell. And the Lance--"

Mrs. Cabell, stronger on genealogy than the younger generation, took upthe wandering thread. "The 'Lance' is my mother's maiden name--VirginiaLance she was. And her brother was David Pendleton Lance. I named yourfather for him because he was born on the day my young uncle was killed, in the battle of Shiloh. "

"Well, then--who's this sailing around with our family name?"

"Who is he? But he must be our close kin, Eleanor. My Uncle Davidleft--that's it. His wife came from California and she went out thereagain to live with her baby. I hadn't heard of them for years. Why, Eleanor, this boy's father must have been--my first cousin. My youngUncle David's baby. Those years of trouble after we left home wiped outso much. I lost track--but that doesn't matter now. Aunt Basha, " spokeMiss Jinny in a quick, efficient voice, which suddenly recalled theblooming and businesslike mother of the young brood of years ago, "AuntBasha, where can I find your young Marse David?"

Aunt Basha smiled radiantly and shook her head. "Cayn't fin' him, honey?I done tried, and he warn't dar. "

"Wasn't where?"

"At de orfice, Miss Jinny. "

"At what office?"

"Why, de _Daybreak_ orfice, cose, Miss Jinny. What yether orfice hegwine be at?"

"Oh!" Miss Jinny followed with ease the windings of the African mind. "He's a reporter on the _Daybreak_ then. "

"'Cose he is, Miss Jinny, ma'am. Whatjer reckon?"

Miss Jinny reflected. Then: "Eleanor, call up the _Daybreak_ office andask if Mr. Lance is there and if he will speak to me. "

But Aunt Basha was right. Mr. Lance was not at the _Daybreak_ office. Mrs. Cabell was as grieved as a child. 

"We'll find him, Grandmother, " Eleanor asserted. "Why, of course--it's amorning paper. He's home sleeping. I'll get his number. " She caught upthe telephone book. 

Aunt Basha chuckled musically. "He ain't got no tullaphome, honey chile. No, my Lawd! Whar dat boy gwine git money for tullaphome andcontraptions? No, my Lawd!"

"How will we get him?" despaired Mrs. Cabell. The end of the council wasa cryptic note in the hand of Jackson, the chauffeur, and orders tobring back the addressee at any cost. 

Meanwhile, as Jackson stood in his smart dark livery taking orders withthe calmness of efficiency, feeling himself capable of getting thatyoung man, howsoever hidden, the young man himself was wasting valuablehours off in day-dreams. In the one shabby big chair of the hall bedroomhe sat and smoked a pipe, and stared at a microscopic fire in a toygrate. It was extravagant of David Lance to have a fire at all, but aslong as he gave up meals to do it likely it was his own affair. Theluxuries mean more than the necessities to plenty of us. With comfort inthis, his small luxury, he watched the play of light and shadow, and thepulsing of the live scarlet and orange in the heart of the coals. Heneeded comfort today, the lonely boy. Two men of the office force whohad gotten their commissions lately at an officer's training-camp hadcome in last night before leaving for Camp Devens; everybody had crowdedabout and praised them and envied them. They had been joked about thesweaters, and socks made by mothers and sweethearts, and about thetrouble Uncle Sam would have with their mass of mail. The men in theoffice had joined to give each a goodbye present. Pride in them, thehonor of them to all the force was shown at every turn; and beyond itall there was the look of grave contentment in their eyes which is themark of the men who have counted the cost and given up everything fortheir country. Most of all soldiers, perhaps, in this great war, theAmerican fights for an ideal. Also he knows it; down to the mostignorant drafted man, that inspiration has lifted the army and given ita star in the East to follow. The American fights for an ideal; the signof it is in the faces of the men in uniform whom one meets everywhere inthe street. 

David Lance, splendidly powerful and fit except for the small limp whichwas his undoing, suffered as he joined, whole-hearted, in the glory ofthose who were going. Back in his room alone, smoking, staring into hisdying fire, he was dreaming how it would feel if he were the one who wasto march off in uniform to take his man's share of the hardship andcomradeship and adventure and suffering, and of the salvation of theworld. With that, he took his pipe from his mouth and grinned broadlyinto the fire as another phase of the question appeared. How would itfeel if he was somebody's special soldier, like both of those boys, sentoff by a mother or a sweetheart, by both possibly, overstocked withthings knitted for him, with all the necessities and luxuries of asoldier's outfit that could be thought of. He remembered how Jarvis, the artillery captain, had showed them, proud and modest, his fieldglass. 

"It's a good one, " he had said. "My mother gave it to me. It has theMills scale. "

And Annesley, the kid, who had made his lieutenant's commission sounexpectedly, had broken in: "That's no shakes to the socks I've got on. If somebody'll pull off my boots I'll show you. Made in Poughkeepsie. Adozen pairs. _Not_ my mother. "

Lance smiled wistfully. Since his own mother died, eight years ago, hehad drifted about unanchored, and though women had inevitably held outhands to the tall and beautiful lad, they were not the sort he caredfor, and there had been none of his own sort in his life. Fate might soeasily have given him a chance to serve his country, with also, maybe, just the common sweet things added which utmost every fellow had, and awoman or two to give him a sendoff and to write him letters over theresometimes. To be a soldier--and to be somebody's soldier! Why, these twothings would mean Heaven! And hundreds of thousands of American boyshad these and thought nothing of it. Fate certainly had been a bitstingy with a chap, considered David Lance, smiling into his little firewith a touch of wistful self-pity. 

At this moment Fate, in smart, dark livery, knocked at his door. "Comein, " shouted Lance cheerfully. 

The door opened and he stared. Somebody had lost the way. Chauffeurs inexpensive livery did not come to his hall bedroom. "Is dis yer Mr. Lance?" inquired Jackson. 

Lance admitted it and got the note and read it while Jackson, knowinghis Family intimately, knew that something pleasant and surprising wasafoot and assisted with a discreet regard. When he saw that the note wasfinished, Jackson confidently put in his word. "Cyar's waitin', sir. Orders is I was to tote you to de house. "

Lance's eyes glowered as he looked up. "Tell me one thing, " he demanded. 

"Yes, sir, " grinned Jackson, pleased with this young gentleman from avery poor neighborhood, who quite evidently was, all the same, "quality. "

"Are you, " inquired Lance, "are you any relation to Aunt Basha?"

Jackson, for all his efficiency a friendly soul, forgot the dignity ofhis livery and broke into chuckles. "Naw, sir; naw, sir. I dunno delady, sir; I reckon I ain't, sir, " answered Jackson. 

"All right, then, but it's the mistake of your life not to be. She's thebest on earth. Wait till I brush my hair, " said Lance, and did it. 

Inside three minutes he was in the big Pierce-Arrow, almost asunfamiliar, almost as delightful to him as to Aunt Basha, and speedinggloriously through the streets. The note had said that some kinspeoplehad just discovered him, and would he come straight to them for lunch. 

Mrs. Cabell and Eleanor crowded frankly to the window when the carstopped. 

"I can't wait to see David's boy, " cried Mrs. Cabell, and Eleanor, wiseof her generation, followed with:

"Now, don't expect much; he may be deadly. "

And out of the limousine stepped, unconscious, the beautiful David, andhanded Jackson a dollar. 

"Oh!" gasped Mrs. Cabell. 

"It was silly, but I love it, " added Eleanor; and David limped swiftlyup the steps, and one heard Ebenezer, the butler, opening the door withsuspicious promptness. Everyone in the house knew, mysteriously, thatuncommon things were doing. 

"Pendleton, " spoke Mrs. Cabell, lying in wait for her son, the greatdoctor, as he came from his office at lunch time, "Pen, dear, let metell you something extraordinary. " She told, him, condensing as mightbe, and ended with; "And oh, Pen, he's the most adorable boy I ever saw. And so lonely and so poor and so plucky. Heartbroken because he's lameand can't serve. You'll cure him. Pen, dear, won't you, for hiscountry?"

The tall, tired man bent down and kissed his mother. "Mummy, I'm not GodAlmighty. But I'll do my damdest for anything you want. Show me theparagon. "

The paragon shot up, with the small unevenness which was his limp, andfaced the big doctor on a level. The two pairs of eyes from theiruncommon height, looked inquiringly into each other. 

"I hear you have my name, " spoke Dr. Cabell tersely. 

"Yes, sir, " said David, "And I'm glad. " And the doctor knew that he alsoliked the paragon. 

Lunch was an epic meal above and below stairs. Jeems had been fetched bythat black Mercury Jackson, messenger today of the gods of joy. And thetwo old souls had been told by Mrs. Cabell that never again should theywork hard or be anxious or want for anything. The sensation-lovingcolored servants rejoiced in the events as a personal jubilee, and mademuch of Aunt Basha and Unc' Jeems till their old heads reeled. Abovestairs the scroll unrolled more or loss decorously, yet in magic colorsunbelievable. Somehow David had told about Annesley and Jarvis lastnight. 

"Somebody knitted him a whole dozen pairs of socks!" he commented, "Really she did. He said so. Think of a girl being as good to a chap asthat. "

"I'll knit you a dozen, " Miss Eleanor Cabell capped his sentence, likethe Amen at the end of a High Church prayer. "I'll begin thisafternoon. "

"And, David, " said Mrs. Cabell--for it had got to be "David" and "CousinVirginia" by now--"David, when you get your commission, I'll have yourfield glass ready, and a few other things. "

Dr. Cabell lifted his eyes from his chop. "You'll spoil that boy, " hestated. "And, mother, I pointed out that I'm not the Almighty, even onjoints, I haven't looked at that game leg yet. I said it _might_ becurable. "

"That boy" looked up, smiling, with long years of loneliness andlameness written in the back of his glance. "Please don't make 'em stop, doctor, " he begged. "I won't spoil easily. I haven't any start. And thisis a fairy-story to me--wonderful people like you letting me--letting mebelong. I can't believe I won't wake up. Don't you imagine it will goto my head. It won't. I'm just so blamed--grateful. "

The deep young voice trailed, and the doctor made haste to answer. "You're all right, my lad, " he said, "As soon as lunch is over you comeinto the surgery and I'll have a glance at the leg. " Which was done. 

After half an hour David came out, limping, pale and radiant. "I can'tbelieve it, " he spoke breathless. "He says--it's a simple--operation. I'll walk--like other men. I'll be right for--the service. " He choked. 

At that Mrs. Cabell sped across the room and put up hands either side ofthe young face and drew it down and kissed the lad whom she did not, this morning, know to be in existence. "You blessed boy, " she whispered, "you shall fight for America, and you'll be our soldier, and we'll beyour people. " And David, kissing her again, looked over her head and sawEleanor glowing like a rose, and with a swift, unphrased shock ofhappiness felt in his soul the wonder of a heaven that might happen. Then they were all about the fire, half-crying, laughing, as people doon top of strong feelings. 

"Aunt Basha did it all, " said David. "If Aunt Basha hadn't been the mostmagnificent old black woman who ever carried a snow-white soul, if shehadn't been the truest patriot in all America, if she hadn't giveneverything for her country--I'd likely never have--found you. " His eyeswent to the two kind and smiling faces, and his last word was a whisper. It was so much to have found. All he had dreamed, people of his own, astraight leg--and--his heart's desire--service to America. 

Mrs. Cabell spoke softly, "I've lived a long time and I've seen over andover that a good deed spreads happiness like a pebble thrown into water, more than a bad one spreads evil, for good is stronger and morecontagious. We've gained this dear kinsman today because of the nobilityof an old negro woman. "

David Lance lifted his head quickly. "It was no small nobility, " hesaid. "As Miss Cabell was saying--"

"I'm your cousin Eleanor, " interrupted Miss Cabell. 

David lingered over the name. "Thank you, my cousin Eleanor. It's as yousaid, nothing more beautiful and wonderful has been done in wonderfulAmerica than this thing Aunt Basha did. It was as gallant as a soldierat the front, for she offered what meant possibly her life. "

"Her little two hundred, " Eleanor spoke gently. "And so cross at theidea of being paid back! She wanted to _give_ it. "

David's face gleamed with a thought as he stared into the firelight, "You see, " he worked out his idea, "by the standards of the angels agift must be big not according to its size but according to what's left. If you have millions and give a few thousand you practically givenothing, for you have millions left. But Aunt Basha had nothing left. The angels must have beaten drums and blown trumpets and raised Cain allover Paradise while you sat in the bank, my cousin Eleanor, for theglory of that record gift. No plutocrat in the land has touched whatAunt Basha did for her country. "

Eleanor's eyes, sending out not only clear vision but a brown light asof the light of stars, shone on the boy. She bent forward, and herslender arms were about her knee. She gazed at David, marveling. Howcould it be that a human being might have all that David appeared to herto have--clear brain, crystal simplicity, manliness, charm ofpersonality, and such strength and beauty besides!

"Yes, " she said, "Aunt Basha gave the most. She has more right than anyof us to say that it's her country. " She was silent a moment and thenspoke softly a single word. "America!" said Eleanor reverently. 

America! Her sound has gone out into all lands and her words into theend of the world. America, who in a year took four million of sonsuntried, untrained, and made them into a mighty army; who adjusted anation of a hundred million souls in a turn of the hand to unknown andunheard of conditions. America, whose greatest glory yet is not thesethings. America, of whom scholars and statesmen and generals andmulti-millionaires say with throbbing pride today: "This is my country, "but of whom the least in the land, having brought what they may, howeversmall, to lay on that flaming altar of the world's safety--of whom theleast in the land may say as truly as the greatest, "This is my country, too. "

THE SWALLOW

The Château Frontenac at Quebec is a turreted pile of masonry wanderingdown a cliff over the very cellars of the ancient Castle of St. Louis. Atwentieth-century hotel, it simulates well a mediæval fortress and liftsagainst the cold blue northern sky an atmosphere of history. Old voiceswhisper about its towers and above the clanging hoofs in its pavedcourt; deathless names are in the wind which blows from the "fleuve, "the great St. Lawrence River far below. Jacques Cartier's voice washeard hereabouts away back in 1539, and after him others, Champlain andFrontenac, and Father Jogues and Mother Marie of the Conception andMontcalm--upstanding fighting men and heroic women and hardy discoverersof New France walked about here once, on the "Rock" of Quebec; there isromance here if anywhere on earth. Today a new knighthood hails thatpast. Uniforms are thick in steep streets; men are wearing them withempty sleeves, on crutches, or maybe whole of body yet with racked faceswhich register a hell lived through. Canada guards heroism of manyvintages, from four hundred years back through the years to Wolfe'stime, and now a new harvest. Centuries from now children will be told, with the story of Cartier, the tale of Vimy Ridge, and while the Rockstands the records of Frenchmen in Canada, of Canadians in France willnot die. 

Always when I go to the Château I get a table, if I can, in the smallerdining-room. There the illusion of antiquity holds through modernluxury; there they have hung about the walls portraits of the worthiesof old Quebec; there Samuel Champlain himself, made into bronze andheroic of size, aloft on his pedestal on the terrace outside, lifts hisplumed hat and stares in at the narrow windows, turning his back onriver and lower city. One disregards waiters in evening clothes andup-to-date table appointments, and one looks at Champlain and the"fleuve, " and the Isle d'Orléans lying long and low, and one thinks oflittle ships, storm-beaten, creeping up to this grim bigness ignorantof continental events trailing in their wake. 

I was on my way to camp in a club a hundred miles north of thegray-walled town when I drifted into the little dining-room for dinnerone night in early September in 1918. The head-waiter was an old friend;he came to meet me and piloted me past a tableful of military color, four men in service uniforms. 

"Some high officers, sir, " spoke the head waiter. "In conference here, Ibelieve. There's a French officer, and an English, and our CanadianGeneral Sampson, and one of your generals, sir. "

I gave my order and sat back to study the group. The waiter had itstraight; there was the horizon blue of France; there was the Englishmantall and lean and ruddy and expressionless and handsome; there was theCanadian, more of our own cut, with a mobile, alert face. The Americanhad his back to me and all I could see was an erect carriage, a brownhead going to gray, and the one star of a brigadier-general on hisshoulders. The beginnings of my dinner went fast, but after soup therewas a lull before greater food, and I paid attention again to myneighbors. They were talking in English. 

"A Huron of Lorette--does that mean a full-blooded Indian of the Hurontribe, such as one reads of in Parkman?" It was the Englishman whoasked, responding to something I had not heard. 

"There's no such animal as a full-blooded Huron, " stated the Canadian. "They're all French-Indian half-breeds now. Lorette's an interestingscrap of history, just the same. You know your Parkman? You remember howthe Iroquois followed the defeated Hurons as far as the Isle d'Orléans, out there?" He nodded toward where the big island lay in the darkness ofthe St. Lawrence. "Well, what was left after that chase took refugefifteen miles north of Quebec, and founded what became and has stayedthe village of Indian Lorette. There are now about five or six hundredpeople, and it's a nation. Under its own laws, dealing by treaty withCanada, not subject to draft, for instance. Queer, isn't it? They guardtheir identity vigilantly. Every one, man or woman, who marries into thetribe, as they religiously call it, is from then on a Huron. And onlythose who have Huron blood may own land in Lorette. The Hurons were, asParkman put it, 'the gentlemen of the savages, ' and the tradition lasts. The half-breed of today is a good sort, self-respecting and brave, notprogressive, but intelligent, with pride in his inheritance, hiscourage, and his woodscraft. "

The Canadian, facing me, spoke distinctly and much as Americans speak; Icaught every word. But I missed what the French general threw backrapidly. I wondered why the Frenchman should be excited. I myself wasinterested because my guides, due to meet me at the club stationtomorrow, were all half-breed Hurons. But why the French officer? Whatshould a Frenchman of France know about backwaters of Canadian history?And with that he suddenly spoke slowly, and I caught several sentencesof incisive if halting English. 

"Zey are to astonish, ze Indian Hurong. For ze sort of workspecial-ment, as like scouting on a stomach. Qu-vick, ver' qu-vick, andver' quiet. By dark places of danger. One sees zat nozzing at allaf-frightens zose Hurong. Also zey are alike snakes, one cannot catchzem--zey slide; zey are slippy. To me it is to admire zat couragemost--personnel--selfeesh--because an Hurong safe my life dere is sixmont', when ze Boches make ze drive of ze mont' of March. "

At this moment food arrived in a flurry, and I lost what came after. ButI had forgotten the Château Frontenac; I had forgotten the group ofofficers, serious and responsible, who sat on at the next table. I hadforgotten even the war. A word had sent my mind roaming. "Huron!" Memoryand hope at that repeated word rose and flew away with me. Hope first. Tomorrow I was due to drop civilization and its tethers. 

"Allah does not count the days spent out of doors. " In Walter Pater'sstory of "Marius the Epicurean" one reads of a Roman country-seat called"Ad Vigilias Albas, " "White Nights. " A sense of dreamless sleep distilsfrom the name. One remembers such nights, and the fresh world of theawakening in the morning. There are such days. There are days whichripple past as a night of sleep and leave a worn brain at the end withthe same satisfaction of renewal; white days. Crystal they are, like thewater of streams, as musical and eventless; as elusive of description asthe ripple over rocks or brown pools foaming. 

The days and months and years of a life race with accelerating pace andyouth goes and age comes as the days race, but one is not older for thewhite days. The clock stops, the blood runs faster, furrows in graymatter smooth out, time forgets to put in tiny crow's-feet and the extragray hair a week, or to withdraw by the hundredth of an ounce the oxygenfrom the veins; one grows no older for the days spent out of doors. Allah does not count them. 

It was days like these which hope held ahead as I paid earnest attentionto the good food set before me. And behold, beside the pleasant visionof hope rose a happy-minded sister called memory. She took the word"Huron, " this kindly spirit, and played magic with it, and the walls ofthe Château rolled into rustling trees and running water. 

I was sitting, in my vision, in flannel shirt and knickerbockers, on alog by a little river, putting together fishing tackle and casting aneye, off and on, where rapids broke cold over rocks and whirled intofoam-flecked, shadowy pools. There should be trout in those shadows. 

"Take the butt, Rafael, while I string the line. "

Rafael slipped across--still in my vision of memory--and was holding myrod as a rod should be held, not too high or too low, or too far or toonear--right. He was an old Huron, a chief of Indian Lorette, and woodscraft was to him as breathing. 

"A varry light rod, " commented Rafael in his low voice which held notones out of harmony with water in streams or wind in trees. "A varrylight, good rod, " paying meanwhile strict attention to his job. "M'sieugo haf a luck today. I t'ink M'sieu go catch a beeg fish on dat river. Water high enough--not too high. And cold. " He shivered a little. "Coldlast night--varry cold nights begin now. Good hun-ting wedder. "

"Have you got a moose ready for me on the little lake, Rafael? It's the1st of September next week and I expect you to give me a shot before the3d. "

Rafael nodded. "Oui, m'sieur. First day. " The keen-eyed, aquiline oldface was as of a prophet. "We go get moose first day. I show you. " Withthat the laughter-loving Frenchman in him flooded over the Indianhunter; for a second the two inheritances played like colors in shotsilk, producing an elusive fabric, Rafael's charm. "If nights get socolder, m'sieur go need moose skin kip him warm. "

I was looking over my flies now, the book open before me, itsfascinating pages of color more brilliant than an old missal, and maybeas filled with religion--the peace of God, charity which endureth, loveto one's neighbor. I chose a Parmachene Belle for hand-fly, always goodin Canadian waters. "A moose-skin hasn't much warmth, has it, Rafael?"

The hunter was back, hawk-eyed. "But yes, m'sieu. Moose skin one timesafe me so I don' freeze to death. But it hol' me so tight so I nearlydon' get loose in de morning. "

"What do you mean?" I was only half listening, for a brown hackle and aMontreal were competing for the middle place on my cast, and it was avital point. But Rafael liked to tell a story, and had come by now to aconfidence in my liking to hear him. He flashed a glance to gather up myattention, and cleared his throat and began: "Dat was one time--I go onde woods--hunt wid my fader-in-law--_mon beau-père_. It was mont' ofMarch--and col'--but ver' col' and wet. So it happen we separate, myfador-in-law and me, to hunt on both side of large enough river. And Ikill moose. What, m'sieur? What sort of gun? Yes. It was rifle--what onecall flint-lock. Large round bore. I cast dat beeg ball myself, what Ikill dat moose. Also it was col'. And so it happen my matches got wet, but yes, ev-very one. So I couldn' buil' fire. I was tired, yes, andmuch col'. I t'ink in my head to hurry and skin dat moose and wrapmyself in dat skin and go sleep on de snow because if not I would die, Iwas so col' and so tired. I do dat. I skin heem--_je le plumait_--debeeg moose--beeg skin. Skin all warm off moose; I wrap all aroun' me anddig hole and lie down on deep snow and draw skin over head and overfeet, and fol' arms, so"--Rafael illustrated--"and I hol' it aroun' widmy hands. And I get warm right away, warm, as bread toast. So I beenslippy, and heavy wid tired, and I got comfortable in dat moose skin andI go aslip quick. I wake early on morning, and dat skin got froze tight, like box made on wood, and I hol' in dat wid my arms fol' so, and myhead down so"--illustrations again--"and I can't move, not one inch. No. What, m'sieur? Yes, I was enough warm, me. But I lie lak dat and can'tmove, and I t'ink somet'ing. I t'ink I got die lak dat, in moose-skin. If no sun come, I did got die. But dat day sun come and be warm, andmoose skin melt lil' bit, slow, and I push lil' bit wid shoulder, andafter while I got ice broke, on moose skin, and I crawl out. Yes. Idon' die yet. "

Rafael's chuckle was an amen to his saga, and at once, with one of hislightning-changes, he was austere. 

"M'sieur go need beeg trout tonight; not go need moose skin till nex'wik. Ze rod is ready take feesh, I see feesh jump by ole log. Not muchroom to cast, but m'sieur can do it. Shall I carry rod down to river form'sieur?"

In not so many words as I have written, but in clear pictures whichcomprehended the words, Memory, that temperamental goddess of moods, had, at the prick of the word "Huron, " shaken out this soft-coloredtapestry of the forest, and held it before my eyes. And as she withdrewthis one, others took its place and at length I was musing profoundly, as I put more of something on my plate and tucked it away into myanatomy. I mused about Rafael, the guide of sixty, who had begun a lifeof continued labor at eight years; I considered the undying Indian inhim; how with the father who was "French of Picardy"--the white bloodbeing a pride to Rafael--he himself, yes, and the father also, for hehad married a "_sauvagess_, " a Huron woman--had belonged to the tribeand were accounted Hurons; I considered Rafael's proud carriage, hisclassic head and carved features, his Indian austerity and his Frenchmirth weaving in and out of each other; I considered the fineness andthe fearlessness of his spirit, which long hardship had not blunted; Ireflected on the tales he had told me of a youth forced to fight theworld. "_On a vu de le misère_, " Rafael had said: "One has seentrouble"--shaking his head, with lines of old suffering emerging fromthe reserve of his face like writing in sympathetic ink under heat. AndI marvelled that through such fire, out of such neglect, out of lack ofopportunity and bitter pressure, the steel of a character should havebeen tempered to gentleness and bravery and honor. 

For it was a very splendid old boy who was cooking for me and greasingmy boots and going off with me after moose; putting his keen ancestralinstincts of three thousand years at my service for three dollars aday. With my chances would not Rafael have been a bigger man than I? Atleast never could I achieve that grand air, that austere repose ofmanner which he had got with no trouble at all from a line of unwashedbut courageous old bucks, thinking highly of themselves for untoldgenerations, and killing everything which thought otherwise. I laughedall but aloud at this spot in my meditations, as a special vision ofRafael rose suddenly, when he had stated, on a day, his views of thegreat war. He talked plain language about the Germans. He specified whyhe considered the nation a disgrace to humanity--most people, notGerman, agree on the thesis and its specifications. Then the fire of hisancient fighting blood blazed through restraint of manner. He drew uphis tall figure, slim-waisted, deep-shouldered, every inch slidingmuscle. "I am too old to go on first call to army, " said Rafael. "Zeywill not take me. Yes, and on second call. Maybe zird time. But if timecome when army take me--I go. If I may kill four Germans I will becontent, " stated Rafael concisely. And his warrior forebears would havebeen proud of him as he stated it. 

My reflections were disturbed here by the American general at the nexttable. He was spoken to by his waiter and shot up and left the room, carrying, however, his napkin in his hand, so that I knew he was due tocome back. A half sentence suggested a telephone. I watched thesoldierly back with plenty of patriotic pride; this was the sort ofwarrior my country turned out now by tens of thousands. With that hereturned, and as I looked up into his face, behold it was Fitzhugh. 

My chair went banging as I sprang toward him. "Jim!"

And the general's calm dignity suddenly was the radiant grin of the boywho had played and gone to school and stolen apples with me for a longbright childhood--the boy lost sight of these last years of his in thearmy. "Dave!" he cried out. "Old Davy Cram!" And his arm went around myshoulder regardless of the public. "My word, but I'm glad!" hesputtered. And then: "Come and have dinner--finish having it. Come toour table. " He slewed me about and presented me to the three others. 

In a minute I was installed, to the pride of my friend the head waiter, at military headquarters, next to Fitzhugh and the Frenchman. A campactrésumé of personal history between Fitzhugh and myself over, I turned tothe blue figure on my left hand, Colonel Raffré, of the French, army. Onhis broad chest hung thrilling bits of color, not only the bronze warcross, with its green watered ribbon striped with red, but the blood-redribbon of the "Great Cross" itself--the cross of the Legion of Honor. Ispoke to him in French, which happens to be my second mother tongue, andhe met the sound with a beaming welcome. 

"I don't do English as one should, " he explained in beautiful Parisian. "No gift of tongues in my kit, I fear; also I'm a bit embarrassed atpractising on my friends. It's a relief to meet some one who speaksperfectly French, as m'sieur. "

M'sieur was gratified not to have lost his facility. "But my ear isgetting slower, " I said. "For instance, I eavesdropped a while ago whenyou were talking about your Huron soldiers, and I got most of what yousaid because you spoke English. I doubt if I could if you'd beenspeaking French. "

The colonel shrugged massive shoulders. "My English is defective butdistinct, " he explained. "One is forced to speak slowly when one speaksbadly. Also the Colonel Chichely"--the Britisher--"it is he at whom Italk carefully. The English ear, it is not imaginative. One must makethings clear. You know the Hurons, then?"

I specified how. 

"Ah!" he breathed out. "The men in my command had been, some of them, what you call guides. They got across to France in charge of troophorses on the ships; then they stayed and enlisted. Fine soldier stuff. Hardy, and of resource and of finesse. Quick and fearless as wildcats. They fit into one niche of the war better than any other material. Youheard the story of my rescue?"

I had not. At that point food had interfered, and I asked if it was toomuch that the colonel should repeat. 

"By no means, " agreed the polite colonel, ready, moreover, I guessed, for any amount of talk in his native tongue. He launched an epicepisode. "I was hit leading, in a charge, two battalions. I need nothave done that, " another shrug--"but what will you? It was snowing; itwas going to be bad work; one could perhaps put courage into the men bybeing at their head. It is often the duty of an officer to do more than, his duty--_n'est-ce-pas?_ So that I was hit in the right knee and theleft shoulder _par exemple_, and fell about six yards from the Germantrenches. A place unhealthy, and one sees I could not run away, beingshot on the bias. I shammed dead. An alive French officer would havebeen too interesting in that scenery. I assure m'sieur that the_entr'actes_ are far too long in No Man's Land. I became more and moredispleased with the management of that play as I lay, very badly amusedwith my wounds, and afraid to blink an eye, being a corpse. The Hunsdemand a high state of immobility in corpses. But I fell happilysidewise, and out of the extreme corner of the left eye I caught aglimpse of our sand-bags. One blessed that twist, though it becameenough _ennuyant_, and one would have given a year of good life to turnover. Merely to turn over. Am I fatiguing m'sieur?" the colonel brokein. 

I prodded him back eagerly into his tale. 

"M'sieur is amiable. The long and short of it is that when it becamedark my good lads began to try to rescue my body. Four or five timesthat one-twentieth of eye saw a wriggling form work through sand-bagsand start slowly, flat to the earth, toward me. But the ground wassnow-covered and the Germans saw too the dark uniform. Each time afusillade of shots broke out, and the moving figure dropped hastilybehind the sand-bags. And each time--" the colonel stopped to light acigarette, his face ruddy in the glare of the match. "Each time Iwas--disappointed. I became disgusted with the management of thattheatre, till at last the affair seemed beyond hope, and I had aboutdetermined to turn over and draw up my bad leg with my good hand for abit of easement and be shot comfortably, when I was aware that thesurface of the ground near by was heaving--the white, snowy groundheaving. I was close enough to madness between cold and pain, and Iregarded the phenomenon as a dream. But with that hands came out of theheaving ground, eyes gleamed. A rope was lashed about my middle and Iwas drawn toward our trenches. " The cigarette puffed vigorously at thispoint. "M'sieur sees?"

I did not. 

The colonel laughed. "One of my Hurons had the inspiration to run to afarmhouse not far away and requisition a sheet. He wrapped himself init, head and all, and, being Indian, it was a bagatelle to him to crawlout on his stomach. They were pleased enough, my good fellows, when theyfound they had got not only my body but also me in it. "

"I can imagine, knowing Hurons, how that Huron enjoyed his success, " Isaid. "It's in their blood to be swift and silent and adventurous. Butthey're superstitious; they're afraid of anything supernatural. " Ihesitated, with a laugh in my mind at a memory. "It's not fitting that Ishould swap stories with a hero of the Great War, yet--I believe youmight be amused with an adventure of one of my guides. " The Frenchman, all civil interest, disclaimed his heroism with hands and shoulders, butsmiling too--for he had small chance at disclaiming with those twocrosses on his breast. 

"I shall be enchanted to hear m'sieur's tale of his guide. For the restI am myself quite mad over the 'sport. ' I love to insanity the out ofdoors and shooting and fishing. It is a regret that the service hasgiven me no opportunity these four years for a breathing spell in thewoods. M'sieur will tell me the tale of his guide's superstition?"

A scheme began to form in my brain at that instant too delightful, itseemed, to come true. I put it aside and went on with my story. "I haveone guide, a Huron half-breed, " I said, "whom I particularly like. He'san old fellow--sixty--but light and quick and powerful as a boy. Moreinteresting than a boy, because he's full of experiences. Two years agoa bear swam across the lake where my camp is, and I went out in a canoewith this Rafael and got him. "

Colonel Raffré made of this fact an event larger than--I am sure--hewould have made of his winning of the war cross. 

"You shame me, colonel, " I said, and went on hurriedly. "Rafael, theguide, was pleased about the bear. 'When gentlemens kill t'ings, guidesis more happy, ' he explained to me, and he proceeded to tell ananecdote. He prefaced it by informing me that one time he hunt bear andhe see devil. He had been hunting, it seemed, two or three wintersbefore with his brother-in-law at the headwaters of the St. MauriceRiver, up north there, " I elucidated, pointing through the window towardthe "long white street of Beauport, " across the St. Lawrence. "It's verylonely country, entirely wild, Indian hunting-ground yet. These twoHurons, Rafael and his brother-in-law, were on a two months' trip tohunt and trap, having their meagre belongings and provisions on sledswhich they dragged across the snow. They depended for food mostly onwhat they could trap or shoot--moose, caribou, beaver, and smallanimals. But they had bad luck. They set many traps but caught nothing, and they saw no game to shoot. So that in a month they were hardpressed. One cold day they went two miles to visit a beaver trap, wherethey had seen signs. They hoped to find an animal caught and to feast onbeaver tail, which is good eating. "

Here I had to stop and explain much about beaver tails, and the rest ofbeavers, to the Frenchman, who was interested like a boy in this new, almost unheard-of beast. At length:

"Rafael and his brother-in-law were disappointed. A beaver had beenclose and eaten the bark off a birch stick which the men had left, butnothing was in the trap. They turned and began a weary walk through thedesolate country back to their little tent. Small comfort waited forthem there, as their provisions were low, only flour and bacon left. And they dared not expend much of that. They were down-hearted, and toadd to it a snow-storm came on and they lost their way. Almost ahopeless situation--an uninhabited country, winter, snow, hunger. Andthey were lost. '_Egaré. Perdu_, ' Rafael said. But the Huron was farfrom giving up. He peered through the falling snow, not thick yet, andspied a mountain across a valley. He knew that mountain. He had workednear it for two years, logging--the '_chantier_, ' they call it. He knewthere was a good camp on a river near the mountain, and he knew therewould be a stove in the camp and, as Rafael said, 'Mebbe we haf a luckand somebody done gone and lef' somet'ing to eat, ' Rafael prefers totalk English to me. He told me all this in broken English. 

"It was three miles to the hypothetical camp, but the two tired, hungrymen in their rather wretched clothes started hopefully. And after a hardtramp through unbroken forest they came in sight of a log shanty andtheir spirits rose. 'Pretty tired work, ' Rafael said it was. When theygot close to the shanty they hoard a noise inside. They halted andlooked at each other. Rafael knew there were no loggers in these partsnow, and you'll remember it was absolutely wild country. Then somethingcame to the window and looked out. "

"_Something_?" repeated the Frenchman in italics. His eyes were wide andhe was as intent on Rafael's story as heart could desire. 

"They couldn't tell what it was, " I went on. "A formless apparition, notexactly white or black, and huge and unknown of likeness. The Indianswere frightened by a manner of unearthliness about the thing, and thebrother-in-law fell on his knees and began to pray. 'It is the devil, 'he murmured to Rafael. 'He will eat us, or carry us to hell. ' And heprayed more. 

"But old Rafael, scared to death, too, because the thing seemed not tobe of this world, yet had his courage with him. 'Mebbe it devil, ' hesaid--such was his report to me--'anyhow I'm cold and hungry, me. I wantdat camp. I go shoot dat devil. '

"He crept up to the camp alone, the brother still praying in the bush. Rafael was rather convinced, mind you, that he was going to face thepowers of darkness, but he had his rifle loaded and was ready forbusiness. The door was open and he stepped inside. Something--'greatbeeg somet'ing' he put it--rose up and came at him, and he fired. Anddown fell the devil. "

"In the name of a sacred pig, what was it?" demanded my Frenchman. 

"That was what I asked. It was a bear. The men who had been logging inthe camp two months back had left a keg of maple-syrup and a half barrelof flour, and the bear broke into both--successively--and alternately. He probably thought he was in bear-heaven for a while, but it must havegotten irksome. For his head was eighteen inches wide when they foundhim, white, with black touches. They soaked him in the river two days, and sold his skin for twenty dollars. 'Pretty good for devil skin, 'Rafael said. "

The Frenchman stared at me a moment and then leaned back in his chairand shouted laughter. The greedy bear's finish had hit his funny-bone. And the three others stopped talking and demanded the story told over, which I did, condensing. 

"I like zat Hurong for my soldier, " Colonel Raffré stated heartily. "Zeman what are not afraid of man _or_ of devil--zat is ze man to fight zeBoches. " He was talking English now because Colonel Chichely waslistening. He went on. "Zere is human devils--oh, but plentee--what wefight in France. I haf not heard of ozzers. But I believe well ze manwho pull me out in sheet would be as your guide Rafael--he also wouldcrip up wiz his rifle on real devil out of hell. But yes. I haf not toldyou how my Indian soldier bring in prisoners--no?"

We all agreed no, and put in a request. 

"He brings zem in not one by one always--not always. " The colonelgrinned. He went on to tell this tale, which I shift into the vernacularfrom his laborious English. 

It appears that he had discerned the aptitude of his Hurons forreconnaissance work. If he needed information out of the dangerouscountry lying in front, if he needed a prisoner to question, these menwere eager to go and get either, get anything. The more hazardous thejob the better, and for a long time they came out of ituntouched. In the group one man--nicknamed by the poilus, hiscomrades--Hirondelle--the Swallow--supposedly because of his lightnessand swiftness, was easily chief. He had a fault, however, his dislike tobring in prisoners alive. Four times he had haled a German corpse beforethe colonel, seeming not rightly to understand that a dead enemy wasuseless for information. 

"The Boches are good killing, " he had elucidated to his officer. Andfinally: "It is well, m'sieur, the colonel. One failed to understandthat the colonel prefers a live Boche to a dead one. Me, I am otherwise. It appears a pity to let live such vermin. Has the colonel, by chance, heard the things these savages did in Belgium? Yes? But then--Yet I willbring to m'sieur, the colonel, all there is to be desired of Germanprisoners alive--_en vie_; fat ones; _en masse_. "

That night Hirondelle was sent out with four of his fellow Hurons toget, if possible, a prisoner. Pretty soon he was separated from theothers; all but himself returning empty-handed in a couple of hours. NoGermans seemed to be abroad. But Hirondelle did not return. 

"He risks too far, " grumbled his captain. "He has been captured at last. I always knew they would get him, one night. "

But that was not the night. At one o'clock there was suddenly a sound oflamentation in the front trench of the French on that sector. Thesoldiers who were sleeping crawled out of their holes in the sides ofthe trench walls, and crowded around the zigzag, narrow way and rubbedtheir eyes and listened to the laughter of officers and soldiers onduty. There was Hirondelle, solemn as a church, yet with a dancing lightin his eyes. There, around him, crowded as sheep to a shepherd, twentyfigures in German uniform stood with hands up and wet tears running downpasty cheeks. And they were fat, it was noticeable that all of them werebulging of figure beyond even the German average. They wailed "Kamerad!Gut Kamerad!" in a chorus that was sickening to the plucky poilumake-up. Hirondelle, interrogated of many, kept his lips shut till thefirst excitement quieted. Then: "I report to my colonel, " he stated, andfinally he and his twenty were led back to the winding trench and thecolonel was waked to receive them. This was what had happened:Hirondelle had wandered about, mostly on his stomach, through thedarkness and peril of No Man's Land, enjoying himself heartily; whensuddenly he missed his companions and realized that he had had no signof them for some time. That did not trouble him. He explained to thecolonel that he felt "more free. " Also that if he pulled off a successhe would have "more glory. " After two hours of this midnight amusement, in deadly danger every second, Hirondelle heard steps. He froze to theearth, as he had learned from wild things in North American forests. Thesteps came nearer. A star-shell away down the line lighted the scene sothat Hirondelle, motionless on the ground, all keen eyes, saw twoGermans coming toward him. Instantly he had a scheme. In a subduedgrowl, yet distinctly, he threw over his shoulder an order that eightmen should go to the right and eight to the left. Then, on his feet, hesent into the darkness a stern "Halt!" Instantly there was a sputter, arms thrown up, the inevitable "Kamerad!" and Hirondelle ordered thefirst German to pass him, then a second. Out of the darkness emerged athird. Hirondelle waved him on, and with that there was a fourth. And afifth. Behold a sixth. About then Hirondelle judged it wise to give moreorders to his imaginary squad of sixteen. But such a panic had seizedthis German mob; that little acting was necessary. Dark figure followeddark figure out of the darker night--arms up. They whimpered as theycame, and on and on they came out of shadows. Hirondelle stated that hebegan to think the Crown Prince's army was surrendering to him. At last, when the procession stopped, he--and his mythical sixteen--marched theentire covey, without any objection from them, only abject obedience, tothe French trenches. 

The colonel, with this whining crowd weeping about him, withHirondelle's erect figure confronting him, his black eyes regarding thecowards with scorn as he made his report--the colonel simply could notunderstand the situation. All these men! "What are you--soldiers?" heflung at the wretched group. And one answered, "No, my officer. We arenot soldiers, we are the cooks. " At that there was a wail. "Ach! Who, then, will the breakfast cook for my general? He will _schrecklich_angry be for his sausage and his sauerkraut. "

By degrees the colonel got the story. A number of cooks had combined toprotest against new regulations, and the general, to punish thisastounding insubordination, had sent them out unarmed, petrified with, terror, into No Man's Land for an hour. They had there encounteredHirondelle. Hirondelle drew the attention of the colonel to the factthat he had promised prisoners, fat ones. "Will my colonel regard theshape of these pigs, " suggested Hirondelle. "And also that they aretwenty in number. Enough _en masse_ for one man to take, is it not, mycolonel?"

The little dinner-party at the Frontenac discussed this episode. "Almosttoo good to be true, colonel, " I objected. "You're sure it _is_ true?Bring out your Hirondelle. He ought to be home wounded, with a war crosson his breast, by now. "

The colonel smiled and shook his head. "It is that which I cannotdo--show you my Hirondelle. Not here, and not in France, by _malheur_. For he ventured once too often and too far, as the captain prophesied, and he is dead. God rest the brave! Also a Croix de Guerre is indeedhis, but no Hirondelle is there to claim it. "

The silence of a moment was a salute to the soul of a warrior passed tothe happy hunting-grounds. And then I began on another story of myRafael's adventures which something in the colonel's tale suggested. 

The colonel, his winning face all a smile, interrupted. "Does onebelieve, then, in this Rafael of m'sieur who caps me each time my talesof my Huron Hirondelle? It appears to me that m'sieur has the brain, ofa story-teller and hangs good stories on a figure which he has built andnamed so--Rafael. Me, I cannot believe there exists this Rafael. Ibelieve there is only one such gallant d'Artagnan of the Hurons, and itis--it was--my Hirondelle. Show me your Rafael, then!" demanded thecolonel. 

At that challenge the scheme which had flashed into my mind an hour agogathered shape and power. "I will show him to you, colonel, " I took upthe challenge, "if you will allow me. " I turned to include the others. "Isn't it possible for you all to call a truce and come up tomorrow tomy club to be my guests for as long or as short a time as you will? Ican't say how much pleasure it would give me, and I believe I could giveyou something also--great fishing, shooting, a moose, likely, or atleast a caribou--and Rafael. I promise Rafael. It's not unlikely, colonel, that he may have known the Hirondelle. The Hurons are few. Docome, " I threw at them. 

They took it after their kind. The Englishman stared and murmured:"Awfully kind, I'm sure, but quite impossible. " The Canadian, our nextof kin, smiled, shaking his head like a brother. Fitzhugh put his arm ofbrawn about me again till that glorious star gleamed almost on my ownshoulder, and patted me lovingly as he said: "Old son, I'd give my eyesto go, if I wasn't up to my ears in job. "

But the Frenchman's face shone, and he lifted a finger that was asentence. It embodied reflection and eagerness and suspense. The rest ofus gazed at that finger as if it were about to address us. And thecolonel spoke. "I t'ink, " brought out the colonel emphatically, "I t'inkI damn go. "

And I snatched the finger and the hand of steel to which it grew, andwrung both. This was a delightful Frenchman. "Good!" I cried out. "Glorious! I want you all, but I'm mightily pleased to get one. Colonel, you're a sport. "

"But, yes, " agreed the colonel happily, "I am sport. Why not? I haf fourdays to wait till my sheep sail. Why not kip--how you say?--kip in myhand for shooting--go kill moose? I may talk immensely of zat moose inFrance--hein? Much more _chic_ as to kill Germans, _n'est çe pas_?Everybody kill Germans. "

At one o'clock next day the out-of-breath little train which had gaspedup mountains for five hours from Quebec uttered a relieved shriek andstopped at a doll-house club station sitting by itself in thewilderness. Four or five men in worn but clean clothes--they alwaysstart clean--waited on the platform, and there was a rapid fire of "_Bonjour_, m'sieur, " as we alighted. Then ten quick eyes took in my colonelin his horizon-blue uniform. I was aware of a throb of interest. At oncethere was a scurry for luggage because the train must be held till itwas off, and the guides ran forward to the baggage-car to help. Ibundled the colonel down a sharp, short hill to the river, whilesmiling, observant Hurons, missing not a line of braid or a glitter ofbutton, passed with bags and _pacquetons_ as we descended. The blue andblack and gold was loaded into a canoe with an Indian at bow and sternfor the three-mile paddle to the club-house. He was already a schoolboyon a holiday with unashamed enthusiasm. 

"But it is fun--fun, zis, " he shouted to me from his canoe. "And_lequel_, m'sieur, which is Rafael?"

Rafael, in the bow of my boat, missed a beat of his paddle. It seemed tome he looked older than two years back, when I last saw him. Hisshoulders were bent, and his merry and stately personality was less inevidence. He appeared subdued. He did not turn with a smile or a graveglance of inquiry at the question, as I had expected. I nodded towardhim. 

"_Mais oui_, " cried out the colonel. "One has heard of you, _mon ami_. One will talk to you later of shooting. "

Rafael, not lifting his head, answered quietly, "_C'est bien, m'sieur. _"

Just then the canoes slipped past a sandy bar decorated with a freshmoose track; the excitement of the colonel set us laughing. This man wascertainly a joy! And with that, after a long paddle down the windingriver and across two breezy lakes, we were at the club-house. Welunched, and in short order--for we wanted to make camp that night--Idug into my _pacquetons_ and transformed my officer into a sportsman, his huge delight in Abernethy & Flitch's creations being a part of thegame. Then we were off. 

One has small chance for associating with guides while travelling in thewoods. One sits in a canoe between two, but if there is a wind and theboat is _chargé_ their hands are full with the small craft and its heavyload; when the landing is made and the "messieurs" are _débarqués_, instantly the men are busy lifting canoes on their heads and packs ontheir backs in bizarre, piled-up masses to be carried from a leathertump-line, a strap of two inches wide going around the forehead. Thewhole length of the spine helps in the carrying. My colonel watchedDelphise, a husky specimen, load. With a grunt he swung up a canvas U. S. Mailbag stuffed with _butin_, which includes clothes and books and shoesand tobacco and cartridges and more. With a half-syllable Delphiseindicated to Laurent a bag of potatoes weighing eighty pounds, a box oftinned biscuit, a wooden package of cans of condensed milk, a rod case, and a raincoat. These Laurent added to the spine of Delphise. 

"How many pounds?" I asked, as the dark head bent forward to equalizethe strain. 

Delphise shifted weight with another grunt to gauge the pull. "About ahundred and eighty pounds, m'sieur--quite heavy--_assez pesant_. " Off hetrotted uphill, head bent forward. 

The colonel was entranced. "Hardy fellows--the making of fine soldiers, "he commented, tossing his cigarette away to stare. 

That night after dinner--but it was called supper--the colonel and Iwent into the big, airy log kitchen with the lake looking in at threewindows and the forest at two doors. We gunned over with the men plansfor the next day, for the most must be made of every minute of thisprecious military holiday. I explained how precious it was, and then Ispoke a few words about the honor of having as our guest a soldier whohad come from the front, and who was going back to the front. For thelife of me I could not resist a sentence more about the two crossesthey had seen on his uniform that day. The Cross of War, the Legion ofHonor! I could not let my men miss that! Rafael had been quiet andcolorless, and I was disappointed in the show qualities of my showguide. But the colonel beamed with satisfaction, in everything andeverybody, and received my small introduction with a bow and a flourishworthy of Carnegie Hall. 

"I am happy to be in this so charming camp, in this forest magnificent, on these ancient mountains, " orated the colonel floridly. "I am mostpleased of all to have Huron Indians as my guides, because betweenHurons and me there are memories. " The men were listening spell-bound. "But yes. I had Huron soldiers serving in my regiment, just now at thewestern front, of whom I thought highly. They were all that there is, those Hurons of mine, of most fearless, most skilful. One among them waspre-eminent. Some of you may have known him. I regret to say that Inever knew his real name, but among his comrades he went by the name ofl'Hirondelle. From that name one guesses his qualities--swift as aswallow, untamable, gay, brave to foolishness, moving in dashes not tobe followed--such was my Hirondelle. And yet this swift bird was in theend shot down. "

At this point in the colonel's speech. I happened to look at Rafael, back in the shadows of the half-lighted big room. His eyes glittered outof the dimness like disks of fire, his face was strained, and his figurebent forward. "He must have known this chap, the Swallow, " I thought tomyself. "Just possibly a son or brother or nephew of his. " The colonelwas going on, telling in fluent, beautiful French the story of howHirondelle, wrapped in a sheet, had rescued him. The men drank it in. "When those guides are old, old fellows, they'll talk about this nightand the colonel's speech to their great-grandchildren, " I considered, and again the colonel went on. 

"Have I m'sieur's permission to _raconter_ a short story of the mostamusing which was the last escapade of my Hirondelle before he waskilled?"

M'sieur gave permission eagerly, and the low murmur of the voices of thehypnotized guides, standing in a group before the colonel, added to itsforce and set him smiling. 

"It was like this, " he stated. "My Hirondelle was out in No Man's Landof a night, strictly charged to behave in a manner _comme il faut_, forhe was of a rashness, and we did not wish to lose him. He was valuableto us, and beyond that the regiment had an affection for him. For suchreasons his captain tried--but, yes--to keep him within bounds. As Isay, on this night he had received particular orders to be _sage_. Sothat the first thing the fellow does is to lose his comrades, for whichhe had a _penchant_, one knows. After that he crawls over that accursedcountry, in and out of shellholes, rifle in his teeth likely--the goodGod knows where else, for one need be all hands and feet for suchcrawling. He crawled in that fashion till at last he lost himself. Andthen he was concerned to find out where might be our lines till in timehe heard a sound of snoring and was well content. Home at last. Hetumbled into a dark trench, remarking only that it was filled with mensince he left, and so tired he was with his adventure that he pushedaway the man next, who was at the end, to gain space, and he rolled overto sleep. But that troublesome man next took too much room. OurHirondelle planted him a kick in the middle of the back. At which theman half waked and swore at him--in German. And dropped off to sleepagain with his leg of a pig slung across Hirondelle's chest. At thatsecond a star-shell lighted up the affair, and Hirondelle, staring withmuch interest, believe me, saw a trench filled with sleeping Boches. Toget out of that as quietly as might be was the game--_n'est-ce-pas, mesamis_? But not for Hirondelle. 

"'My colonel has a liking for prisoners, ' he reported later. 'Mycaptain's orders were to conduct oneself _très comme il faut_. It isalways _comme il faut_ to please the colonel. Therefore it seemed _enregle_ to take a prisoner. I took him. _Le v'la_. '

"What the fellow did was to wait till the Boche next door was wellasleep, then slowly remove his rifle, then fasten on his throat with agrip which Hirondelle understood, and finally to overpower the Bochetill he was ready enough to crawl out at the muzzle of Hirondelle'srifle. "

There was a stir in the little group of guides, and from the shadowsRafael's voice spoke. 

"Mon colonel--pardon!"

The colonel turned sharply. "Who is that?"

"There were two Germans, " spoke the voice out of the shadows. 

The colonel, too astonished to answer, stared. The voice, trembling, old, went on. "The second man waked and one was obliged to strangle himalso. One brought the brace to the captain at the end of thecarabine--rifle. "

"In heaven's name who are you?" demanded the colonel. 

From where old Rafael had been, bowed and limp in his humble, wornclothes, stepped at a stride a soldier, head up, shoulders squared, glittering eyes forward, and stood at attention. It was like magic. Onehand snapped up in a smart salute. 

"Who are you?" whispered the colonel. 

"If the colonel pleases--l'Hirondelle. "

I heard the colonel's breath come and go as he peered, leaning forwardto the soldierly figure. "_Nom de Ciel_, " he murmured, "I believe itis. " Then in sharp sentences: "You were reported killed. Are you adeserter?"

The steady image of a soldier dropped back a step. 

"My colonel--no. "

"Explain this. "

Rafael--l'Hirondelle--explained. He had not been killed, but capturedand sent to a German prison-camp. 

"You escaped?" the colonel threw in. 

"But yes, my colonel. "

The colonel laughed. "One would know it. The clumsy Boches could nothold the Swallow. "

"But no, my colonel. "

"Go on. "

"One went to work before light, my colonel, in that accursedprison-camp. One was out of sight from the guard for a moment, turning acorner, so that on a morning I slipped into some bushes and hid in adugout--for it was an old camp--all day. That night I walked. I walkedfor seven nights and lay hid for seven days, eating, my colonel, verylittle. Then, _v'la_, I was in front of the French lines. "

"You ran across to our lines?"

"But not exactly. One sees that I was yet in dirty German prisonclothes, and looked like an infantryman of the Boches, so that a poilurushed at me with a bayonet. I believed, then, that I had come upon aGerman patrol. Each thought the other a Hun. I managed to wrest from thepoilu his rifle with the bayonet, but as we fought another shot me--inthe side. "

"You were wounded?"

"Yes, my colonel. "

"In hospital?"

"Yes, my colonel. "

"How long?"

"Three months, my colonel. "

"Why are you not again in the army?"

The face of the erect soldier, Hirondelle, the dare-devil, was suddenlythe face of a man grown old, ill, and broken-hearted. He stared at thestalwart French officer, gathering himself with an effort. "I--wasdischarged, my colonel, as--unfit. " His head in its old felt hat droppedinto his hands suddenly, and he broke beyond control into sobs thatshook not only him but every man there. 

The colonel stepped forward and put an arm around the bent shoulders. "_Mon héros!_" said the colonel. 

With that Rafael found words, never a hard task for him. Yet they camewith gasps between. "To be cast out as an old horse--at the moment ofglory! I had dreamed all my life--of fighting. And I had it--oh, mycolonel--I had it! The glory came when I was old and knew how to behappy in it. Not as a boy who laughs and takes all as his right. I wasold, yes, but I was good to kill the vermin. I avenged the children andthe women whom those savages--My people, the savages of the wood, knewno better, yet they have not done things as bad as these vile ones whowere educated, who knew. Therefore I killed them. I was old, but I wasstrong, my colonel knows. Not for nothing have I lived a hard life. _Ona vu de la misère_. I have hunted moose and bear and kept my muscles ofsteel and my eyes of a hawk. It is in my blood to be a fighting man. Ifought with pleasure, and I was troubled with no fear. I was old, but Icould have killed many devils more. And so I was shot down by my ownfriend after seven days of hard life. And the young soldier doctordischarged me as unfit to fight. And so I am come home very fast to hidemyself, for I am ashamed. I am finished. The fighting and the glory arefor me no more. "

The colonel stepped back a bit and his face flamed. "Glory!" hewhispered. "Glory no more for the Hirondelle? What of the Croix deGuerre?"

Rafael shook his head. "I haf heard my colonel who said they would havegiven me--me, the Hirondelle--the war cross. That now is lost too. "

"Lost!" The colonel's deep tone was full of the vibration which only aFrench voice carries. With a quick movement he unfastened the catch thatheld the green ribbon, red-striped, of his own cross of war. He turnedand pinned the thing which men die for on the shabby coat of the guide. Then he kissed him on either cheek. "My comrade, " he said, "your glorywill never be old. "

There was deep silence in the camp kitchen. The crackling of wood thatfell apart, the splashing of the waves of the lake on the pebbles by theshore were the only sounds on earth. For a long minute the men stood asif rooted; the colonel, poised and dramatic, and, I stirred to thedepths of my soul by this great ceremony which had come out of the skiesto its humble setting in the forest--the men and the colonel and I, weall watched Rafael. 

And Rafael slowly, yet with the iron tenacity of his race, got back hiscontrol. "My colonel, " he began, and then failed. The Swallow did notdare trust his broken wings. It could not be done--to speak his thanks. He looked up with black eyes shining through tears which spokeeverything. 

"Tomorrow, " he stated brokenly, "if we haf a luck, my colonel and I gokill a moose. "

They had a luck. 

ONLY ONE OF THEM

It was noon on a Saturday. Out of the many buildings of the greatelectrical manufacturing plant at Schenectady poured employees byhundreds. Thirty trolley-cars were run on special tracks to the placeand stood ready to receive the sea streaming towards them. Massedmotor-cars waited beyond the trolleys for their owners, officials of theworks. The girl in blue serge, standing at a special door of a specialbuilding counted, keeping watch meantime of the crowd, the cars. Ahundred and twenty-five she made it; it came to her mind that StateStreet in Albany on a day of some giant parade was not unlike this, notless a throng. The girl, who was secretary to an assistant manager, wasused to the sight, but it was an impressive sight and she wasimpressionable and found each Saturday's pageant a wonder. The pageantwas more interesting it may be because it focussed always on onefigure--and here he was. 

"Did you wait, long?" he asked as he came up, broad-shouldered andathletic of build, boyish and honest of face, as good looking a youngAmerican as one may see in any crowd. 

"I was early. " She smiled up at him as they swung off towards thetrolleys; her eyes flashed a glance which said frankly that she foundhim satisfactory to look upon. 

They sped past others, many others, and made a trolley car and a seattogether, which was the goal. They always made it, every Saturday, yetit was always a game. Exhilarated by the winning of the game theysettled into the scat for the three-quarters of an hour run; it wasquite a worth-while world, the smiling glances said one to the other. 

The girl gazed, not seeing them particularly, at the slower peoplefilling the seats and the passage of the car. Then: "Oh, " she spoke, "what was it you were going to tell me?"

The man's face grew sober, a bit troubled. "Well, " he said, "I'vedecided. I'm going to enlist. "

She was still for a second. Then: "I think that's splendid, " she broughtout. "Splendid. Of course, I knew you'd do it. It's the only thing thatcould be. I'm glad. "

"Yes, " the man spoke slowly. "It's the only thing that could be. There'snothing to keep me. My mother's dead. My father's husky and not old andmy sisters are with him. There's nobody to suffer by my going. "

"N-no, " the girl agreed. "But--it's the fine thing to do just the same. You're thirty-two you see, and couldn't be drafted. That makes it rathergreat of you to go. "

"Well, " the man answered, "not so very great, I suppose, as it's whatall young Americans are doing. I rather think it's one of those things, like spelling, which are no particular credit if you do them, but adisgrace if you don't. "

"What a gray way of looking at it!" the girl objected. "As if all thecountry wasn't glorying in the boys who go! As if we didn't all standback of you and crowd the side lines to watch you, bursting with pride. You know we all love you. "

"Do you love me, Mary? Enough to marry me before I go?" His voice waslow, but the girl missed no syllable. She had heard those words or somelike them in his voice before. 

"Oh, Jim, " she begged, "don't ask me now. I'm not certain--yet. I--Icouldn't get along very well without you. I care a lot. But--I'm notjust sure it's--the way I ought to care to marry you. "

As alone in the packed car as in a wood, the little drama went on and noone noticed. "I'm sorry, Mary. " The tone was dispirited. "I could gowith a lot lighter heart if we belonged to each other. "

"Don't say that, Jim, " she pleaded. "You make me out--a slacker. Youdon't want me to marry you as a duty?"

"Good Lord, no!"

"I know that. And I--do care. There's nobody like you. I admire you sofor going--but you're not afraid of anything. It's easy for you, thatpart. I suppose a good many are really--afraid. Of the guns and thehorror--all that. You're lucky, Jim. You don't give that a thought. "

The man flashed an odd look, and then regarded his hands joined on hisknee. 

"I do appreciate your courage. I admire that a lot. But somehow Jimthere's a doubt that holds me back. I can't be sure I--love you enough;that it's the right way--for that. "

The man sighed. "Yes, " he said. "I see. Maybe some time. Heavens knows Iwouldn't want you unless it was whole-hearted. I wouldn't risk yourregretting it, not if I wanted you ten times more. Which is impossible. "He put out his big hand with a swift touch on hers. "Maybe some time. Don't worry, " he said. "I'm yours. " And went on in a commonplace tone, "I think I'll show up at the recruiting office this afternoon, and I'llcome to your house in the evening as usual. Is that all right?"

The car sped into Albany and the man went to her door with the girl andleft her with few words more and those about commonplace subjects. Ashe swung down the street he went over the episode in his mind, anddissected it and dwelt on words and phrases and glances, and drewconclusions as lovers have done before, each detail, each conclusionmightily important, outweighing weeks of conversation of the rest of theworld together. At last he shook his head and set his lips. 

"It's not honest. " He formed the words with his lips now, a summing upof many thoughts in his brain. The brain went on elaborating the text. "She thinks I'm brave; she thinks it's easy for me to face enlisting, and the rest. She thinks I'm the makeup which can meet horror andsuffering light-heartedly. And I'm not. She admires me for that--shesaid so. I'm not it. I'm fooling her; it's not honest. Yet"--he groanedaloud. "Yet I may lose her if I tell her the truth. I'm afraid. I am. Ihate it. I can't bear--I can't bear to leave my job and my future, justwhen it's opening out. But I could do that. Only I'm--Oh, damnation--I'mafraid. Horror and danger, agony of men and horses, myself woundedmaybe, out on No Man's Land--left there--hours. To die like a dog. Oh, my God--must I? If I tell it will break the little hold I have on her. Must I go to this devil's dance that I hate--and give up her lovebesides? But yet--it isn't honest to fool her. Oh, God, what will I do?"People walking up State Street, meeting a sober-faced young man, glancedat him with no particular interest. A woman waiting on a doorstepregarded him idly. 

"Why isn't he in uniform?" she wondered as one does wonder in these daysat a strong chap in mufti. Then she rebuked her thought. "Undoubtedlythere's a good reason; American boys are not slackers. "

His slow steps carried him beyond her vision and casual thought. Thepeople in the street and the woman on the doorstep did not think or carethat what they saw was a man fighting his way through the crisis of hislife, fighting alone "per aspera ad astra--" through thorns to thestars. 

He lunched with a man at a club and after that took his way to thebuilding on Broadway where were the recruiting headquarters. He had toldher that he was going to enlist. As he walked he stared at the people inthe streets as a man might stare going to his execution. These peoplewent about their affairs, he considered, as if he--who was about todie--did not, in passing their friendly commonplace, salute them. He didsalute them. Out of his troubled soul he sent a silent greeting to eachordinary American hurrying along, each standing to him for pleasant andpeaceful America, America of all his days up to now. Was he to toss awaythis comfortable comradeship, his life to be, everything he cared for onearth, to go into hell, and likely never come back? Why? Why must he?There seemed to be plenty who wanted to fight--why not let them? It wasthe old slacker's argument; the man was ashamed as he caught himselfusing it; he had the grace to see its selfishness and cowardice. Yet hissoul was in revolt as he drove his body to the recruiting office, andthe thoughts that filled him were not of the joy of giving but of thepain of giving up. With that he stood on the steps of the building andhere was Charlie Thurston hurrying by on the sidewalk. 

"Hello, Jim! Going in to enlist? So long till you come back with one legand an eye out. "

It was Thurston's idea of a joke. He would have been startled if he hadknown into what a trembling balance his sledge-hummer wit cast itsunlucky weight. The balance quivered at the blow, shook back and forthan instant and fell heavily. Jim Barlow wheeled, sprang down the stonesteps and bolted up the street, panting as one who has escaped a wildbeast. Thurston had said it. That was what was due to happen. It was nowthree o'clock; Barlow fled up State Street to the big hotel and took aroom and locked his door and threw himself on the bed. What was he todo? After weeks of hesitation he had come to the decision that he wouldoffer himself to his country. He saw--none plainer--the reasons why itwas fit and right so to do. Other men were giving up homes and careersand the whole bright and easy side of life--why not he? It was thegreatest cause to fight for in the world's history--should he not fightfor it? How, after the war, might he meet friends, his own people, hischildren to come, if he alone of his sort had no honorable record toshow? Such arguments, known to all, he repeated, even aloud he repeatedthem, tossing miserably about the bed in his hotel room. And his mind atonce accepted them, but that was all. His spirit failed to spring to hismind's support with the throb of emotion which is the spark that makesthe engine go. The wheels went around over and over but the connectionwas not made. The human mind is useful machinery, but it is only themachine's master, the soul, which can use it. Over and over he got tohis feet and spoke aloud: "Now I will go. " Over and over a repulsionseized him so strongly that his knees gave way and he fell back on thebed. If he had a mother, he thought, she might have helped, but therewas no one. Mary--but he could not risk Mary's belief in his courage. Only a mother would have understood entirely. 

With that, sick at heart, the hideous sea of counter arguments, arguments of a slacker, surged upon him. What would it all matter ahundred years from now? Wasn't he more useful in his place keeping upthe industries of the nation? Wasn't he a bigger asset to America as analive engineer, an expert in his work, than as mere cannon fodder, oneof thousands to be shot into junk in a morning's "activity"--just one ofthem? Because the Germans were devils why should he let them reach overhere, away over here, and drag him out of a decent and happy life andthrow him like dirt into the horrible mess they had made, and leave himdead or worse--mangled and useless. Then, again--there were plenty ofmen mad to fight; why not let them? Through a long afternoon he foughtwith the beasts, and dinner-time came and he did not notice, and at lasthe rose and, telephoning first to Mary a terse message that he would notbe able to come this evening, he went out, hardly knowing what he did, and wandered up town. 

There was a humble church in a quiet street where a service flag hung, thick with dark stars, and the congregation were passing out from aspecial service for its boys who were going off to camp. The boys werethere on the steps, surrounded by people eager to touch their hands, alittle group of eight or ten with serious bright faces, and a look intheir eyes which stabbed into Barlow. One may see that look any day inany town, meeting the erect stalwart lads in khaki who are about ourstreets. It is the look of those who have made a vital sacrifice andknow the price, and whose minds are at peace. Barlow, lingering on thecorner across the way, stared hungrily. How had they got that look, thatpeace? If only he might talk to one of them! Yet he knew how dumb ananimal is a boy, and how helpless these would be to give him the masterword. 

The master-word, he needed that; he needed it desperately. He must go;he must. Life would be unendurable without self-respect; no amount ofexplaining could cover the stain on his soul if he failed in the answerto the call of honor. That was it, it was in a nut-shell, the call. Yethe could not hear it as his call. He wandered unhappily away and leftthe church and its dissolving congregation, and the boys, the pride ofthe church, the boys who were now, they also, separating and going backeach to his home for the last evening perhaps, to be loved and made muchof. Barlow vaguely pictured the scenes in those little homes--eyesbright with unshed tears, love and laughter and courage, patriotism asfine as in any great house in America, determination that in giving toAmerica what was dearest it should be given with high spirit--that theboys should have smiling faces to remember, over there. And thenagain--love and tender words. He was missing all that. He, too, might goback to his father's house an enlisted man, and meet his father's eyesof pride and see his sisters gaze at him with a new respect, feel theirnew honor of him in the touch of arms about his neck. All these thingswere for him too, if he would but take them. With that there was thesound of singing, shrill, fresh voices singing down the street. Hewheeled about. A company of little girls were marching towards him andhe smiled, looking at them, thinking the sight as pretty as a garden offlowers. They were from eight to ten or eleven years old and in thebravery of fresh white dresses; each had a big butterfly of pink or blueor yellow or white ribbon perched on each little fair or dark head, andeach carried over her shoulder a flag. Quite evidently they were comingfrom the celebration at the church, where in some capacity they hadfigured. Not millionaires children these; the little sisters likely ofthe boys who were going to be soldiers; just dear things that bloom allover America, the flowering of the land, common to rich and poor. Asthey sprang along two by two, in unmartial ranks, they sang with alltheir might "The Long, Long Trail. "

 "There's a long, long trail that's leading To No Man's Land in France Where the shrapnel shells are bursting And we must advance. "

 * * * * *

And then:

 We're going to show old Kaiser Bill What our Yankee boys can do. 

Jim Barlow, his hands in his pockets, backed up against a house andlistened to the clear, high, little voices. "No Man's Land in France--Wemust advance--What our Yankee boys can do. "

As if his throat were gripped by a quick hand, a storm of emotion swepthim. The little girls--little girls who were the joy, each one, of somehome! Such little things as the Germans--in Belgium--"Oh, my God!" Thewords burst aloud from his lips. These were trusting--innocent, ignorant--to "What our Yankee boys can do. " Without that, without theYankee boys, such as these would be in the power of wild beasts. It washis affair. Suddenly he felt that stab through him. 

"God, " he prayed, whispering it as the little girls passed on singing, "help me to protect them; help me to forget myself. " And the miraclethat sends an answer sometimes, even in this twentieth century, to trueprayer happened to Jim Barlow. Behold he had forgotten himself. With hishead up and peace in his breast, and the look in his face already, though he did not know it, that our soldier boys wear, he turned andstarted at a great pace down the street to the recruiting office. 

"Why, you did come. "

It was nine o'clock and he stood with lighted face in the middle of thelittle library. And she came in; it was an event to which he never gotused, Mary's coming into a room. The room changed always into such anastonishing place. 

"Mary, I've done it. I'm--" his voice choked a bit--"I'm a soldier. " Helaughed at that. "Well not so you'd notice it, yet. But I've taken thefirst step. "

"I knew, Jim. You said you were going to enlist. Why did you telephoneyou couldn't come?"

He stared down at her, holding her hands yet. He felt, unphrased, strong, the overwhelming conviction that she was the most desirablething on earth. And directly on top of that conviction another, that hewould be doing her desirableness, her loveliness less than the highesthonor if he posed before her in false colors. At whatever cost tohimself he must be honest with her. Also--he was something more nowthan his own man; he was a soldier of America, and inside and out hewould be, for America's sake, the best that was in him to be. 

"Mary, I've got a thing to tell you. "

"Yes?" The sure way in which she smiled up at him made the effortharder. 

"I fooled you. You think I'm a hero. And I'm not. I'm a--" for the lifeof him he could not get out the word "coward. " He went on: "I'm a blamedbaby. " And he told her in a few words, yet plainly enough what he hadgone through in the long afternoon. "It was the kiddies who clinched it, with their flags and their hair ribbons--and their Yankee boys. Icouldn't stand for--not playing square with them. "

Suddenly he gripped her hands so that it hurt. "Mary, God help me, I'lltry to fight the devils over there so that kiddies like that, and--you, and all the blessed people, the whole dear shooting-match will be safeover here. I'm glad--I'm so glad I'm going to have a hand in it. Mary, it's queer, but I'm happier than I've been in months. Only"--his browsdrew anxiously. "Only I'm scared stiff for fear you think me--a coward. "

He had the word out now. Thee taste wasn't so bad after all; it seemedoddly to have nothing to do with himself. "Mary, dear, couldn'tyou--forget that in time? When I've been over there and behaveddecently--and I think I will. Somehow I'm not afraid of being afraidnow. It feels like a thing that couldn't be done--by a soldier of UncleSam's. I'll just look at the other chaps--all heroes, you know--and beso proud I'm with them and so keen to finish our job that Iknow--somehow I _know_ I'll never think about my blooming self at all. It's queer to say it, Mary, but the way it looks now I'm in it, it's notjust country even. It's religion. See, Mary?"

There was no sound, no glance from Mary. But he went on, unaware, sorapt was he in his new illumination. 

"And when I come back, Mary, with a decent record--just possibly with awar-cross--oh, my word! Think of me! Then, couldn't you forget thisbusiness I've been telling you? Do you think you could marry me then?"

What was the matter? Why did she stand so still with her head bendinglower and lower, the color deepening on the bit of cheek that hisanxious eyes could see. 

"Mary!"

Suddenly she was clutching his collar as if in deadly fear. 

"Mary, what's the matter? I'm such a fool, but--oh, Mary, dear!"

With that Mary-dear straightened and, slipping her clutch to the lapelof his old coat, spoke. She looked into his eyes with a smile that wassweeter--oh, much sweeter!--for tears that dimmed it, and she chokedmost awfully between words. "Jim"--and a choke. "Jim, I'm terrified tothink I nearly let you get away. You. And me not worthy to lace yourshoes--" ("Oh, gracious, Mary--don't!") "me--the idiot, backing andfilling when I had the chance of my life at--at a hero. Oh, Jim!"

"Here! Mary, don't you understand? I've been telling you I was scaredblue. I hated to tell you Mary, and it's the devil to tell you twice--"

What was this? Did Heaven then sometimes come down unawares on the headof an every-day citizen with great lapses of character? Jim Barlow, entranced, doubted his senses yet could not doubt the touch of softhands clasped in his neck. He held his head back a little to be surethat they were real. Yes, they were there, the hands--Barlow's nextremark was long, but untranslatable. Minutes later. "Mary, tell me whatyou mean. Not that I care much if--if this. " Language grows ellipticalunder stress. "But--did you get me? I'm--a coward. " A hand flashedacross his mouth. 

"Don't you dare, Jim, you're the bravest--bravest--"

The words died in a sharp break. "Why, Jim it was a hundred thousandtimes pluckier to be afraid and then go. Can't you see that, you bigstupid?"

"But, Mary, you said you admired it when--when you thought I was a lionof courage. "

"Of course. I admired you. Now I adore you. "

"Well, " summed up, Barlow bewildered, "if women aren't the blamedest!"

And Mary squealed laughter. She put hands each side of his face. "Jim--listen. I'll try to explain because you have a right tounderstand. "

"Well, yes, " agreed Jim. 

"It's like this. I thought you'd enlist and I never dreamed you werebalky. I didn't know you hated it so. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Go on, " urged Jim. 

"I thought you were mad to be going, like--like these light-headed boys. That you didn't mind leaving me compared to the adventure. That youdidn't care for danger. But now--now. " She covered his eyes with herfingers, "Now Jim, you need me. A woman can't love a man her best unlessshe can help him. Against everything--sorrow, mosquitoes, badfood--drink--any old bother. That's the alluring side of tipplers. Womenwant to help them. So, now I know you need me, " the soft, unsteady voicewandered on, and Jim, anchored between, the hands, drank in her lookwith his eyes and her tones with his ears and prayed that the situationmight last a week. "You need me so, to tell you how much finer you arethan if you'd gone off without a quiver. "

Barlow sighed in contentment. "And me thinking I was the solitary'fraid-cat of America!"

"Solitary! Why, Jim, there must be at least ten hundred thousand mengoing through this same battle. All the ones old enough to think, probably. Why Jim--you're only one of them. In that speech the othernight the man said this war was giving men their souls. I think it'syour kind he meant, the kind that realizes the bad things over there andthe good things over here and goes just the same. The kind--you are. "

"I'm a hero from Hero-ville, " murmured Barlow. "But little Mary, when Icome back mangled will you feel the same? Will you marry me then, Mary?"

"I'll marry you any minute, " stated Mary, "and when you come back I'lllove you one extra for every mangle. "

"Any minute, " repeated Barlow dramatically. "Tomorrow?"

And summed up again the heaven that he could not understand and did notwant to, "Search me, " he adjured the skies in good Americanese, "ifgirls aren't the blamedest. "

THE V. C. 

I had forgotten that I ordered frogs' legs. When mine were placed beforeme I laughed. I always laugh at the sight of frogs' legs because of theperson and the day of which they remind me. Nobody noticed that Ilaughed or asked the reason why, though it was an audible chuckle, andthough I sat at the head of my own dinner-party at the Cosmic Club. 

The man for whom the dinner was given, Colonel Robert Thornton, mycousin, a Canadian, who got his leg shot off at Vimy Ridge, was makingoration about the German Crown Prince's tactics at Verdun, and that wasthe reason that ten men were not paying attention to me and that I wasnot paying attention to Bobby. When the good chap talks human talk, tells what happened to people and what their psychological processesseemed to be, he is entertaining. He has a genuine gift of sympathy anda power to lead others in the path he treads; in short, he tells a goodstory. But like most people who do one thing particularly well he isalways priding himself on the way he does something else. He likes tolook at Colonel Thornton as a student of the war, and he has the time ofhis life when he can get people to listen to what he knows Joffre andFoch and Haig and Hindenberg ought to have done. So at this moment hewas enjoying his evening, for the men I had asked to meet him, allstrangers to him, ignorant of his real powers, were hanging on hiswords, partly because no one can help liking him whatever he talksabout, and partly because, with that pathetic empty trouser-leg and thecrutch hooked over his chair, he was an undoubted hero. So I heard thesentences ambling, and reflected that Hilaire Belloc with maps and aquiet evening would do my tactical education more good than BobbyThornton's discursions. And about then I chuckled unnoticed, over thesilly frogs' legs. 

"Tell me, Colonel Thornton, do you consider that the French made amistake in concentrating so much of their reserve--" It was theGovernor himself who was demanding this earnestly of Bobby. And I sawthat the Governor and the rest were hypnotized, and did not need me. 

So I sat at the head of the table, and waiters brooded over us, andcucumbers and the usual trash happened, and Bobby held forth while theten who were bidden listened as to one sent from heaven. And, beingsuperfluous, I withdrew mentally to a canoe in a lonely lake and wentfrogging. 

Vicariously. I do not like frogging in person. The creature smiles. Alsohe appeals because he is ugly and complacent. But for the grace of God Imight have looked so. He sits in supreme hideousness frozen to the endof a wet log, with his desirable hind legs spread in view, and smileshis bronze smile of confidence in his own charm and my friendship. It ismore than I can do to betray that smile. So, hating to destroy the beastyet liking to eat the leg, about once in my summer vacation in camp I gofrogging, and make the guides do it. 

It would not be etiquette to send them out alone, for in our club guidesare supposed to do no fishing or shooting--no sport. Therefore, I sit ina canoe and pretend to take a frog in a landing-net and miss two orthree and shortly hand over the net to Josef. We have decided onlanding-nets as our tackle. I once shot the animals with a . 22 Flobertrifle, but almost invariably they dropped, like a larger bullet, off thelog and into the mud, and that was the end. We never could retrievethem. Also at one time we fished them with a many-pronged hook and a bitof red flannel. But that seemed too bitter a return for the bronzesmile, and I disliked the method, besides being bad at it. We took tothe landing-net. 

To see Josef, enraptured with the delicate sport, approach a netcarefully till within an inch of the smile, and then give the old gravenimage a smart rap on the legs in question to make him leap headlong intothe snare--to see that and Josef's black Indian eyes glitter with joy atthe chase is amusing. I make him slaughter the game instantly, whichappears supererogatory to Josef who would exactly as soon have acollection of slimy ones leaping around the canoe. But I have them deadand done for promptly, and piled under the stern seat. And on we paddleto the next. 

The day to which I had retired from my dinner-party and the tacticallecture of my distinguished cousin was a late August day of two yearsbefore. The frogging fleet included two canoes, that of young JohnDudley who was doing his vacation with me, and my own. In each canoe, asis Hoyle for canoeing in Canada, were two guides and a "m'sieur. " Theother boat, John's, was somewhere on the opposite shore of Lac desPasses, the Lake of the Passes, crawling along edges of bays andspecializing in old logs and submerged rocks, after frogs with alanding-net, the same as us. But John--to my mind coarser--was doing hisown frogging. The other boat was nothing to us except for an occasionalyell when geography brought us near enough, of "How many?" and envy andmalice and all uncharitableness if the count was more, and hoots oftriumph if less. 

In my craft sailed, besides Josef and myself, as bow paddler, The TinLizzie. We called him that except when he could hear us, and I think itwould have done small harm to call him so then, as he had the brain of ajack-rabbit and managed not to know any English, even when soaked in itdaily. John Dudley had named him because of the plebeian and reliableway in which he plugged along Canadian trails. He set forth the queerestwalk I have ever seen--a human Ford, John said. He was also quite madabout John. There had been a week in which Dudley, much of a doctor, hadtreated, with cheerful patience and skill, an infected and painful handof the guide's, and this had won for him the love eternal of our TinLizzie. Little John Dudley thought, as he made jokes to distract theboy, and worked over his big throbbing fist, the fist which meant dailybread--little John thought where the plant of love springing from thatseed of gratitude would at last blossom. Little he thought as the twosat on the gallery of the camp, and the placid lake broke in silver onpebbles below, through what hell of fire and smoke and danger thekindliness he gave to the stupid young guide would be given back to him. Which is getting ahead of the story. 

I suggested that the Lizzie might like a turn at frogging, and Josef, with Indian wordlessness, handed the net to him. Whereupon, with hisflabby mouth wide and his large gray eyes gleaming, he proceeded to missfour easy ones in succession. And with that Josef, in a gibberish whichis French-Canadian patois of the inner circles, addressed the Tin Lizzieand took away the net from him, asking no orders from me. The Lizzie, pipe in mouth as always, smiled just as pleasantly under this punishmentas in the hour of his opportunities. He would have been a very handsomeboy, with his huge eyes and brilliant brown and red color and hissplendid shoulders and slim waist of an athlete if only he had possesseda ray of sense. Yet he was a good enough guide to fill in, for he wasstrong and willing and took orders amiably from anybody and did hisroutine of work, such as chopping wood and filling lamps and bringingwater and carrying boats, with entire efficiency. That he had noinitiative at all and by no chance did anything he was not told to, evenwhen most obvious, that he was lacking in any characteristic ofinterest, that he was moreover a supreme coward, afraid to be left alonein the woods--these things were after all immaterial, for, as Johnpointed out, we didn't really need to love our guides. 

John also pointed out that the Lizzie--his name was, incidentally, Aristophe--had one nice quality. Of course, it was a quality whichappealed most to the beneficiary, yet it seemed well to me also to havemy guests surrounded with mercy and loving kindness. John had but tosuggest building a fire or greasing his boots or carrying a canoe overany portage to any lake, and the Lizzie at once leaped with a brightsmile as who should say that this was indeed a pleasure. "C'est bien, M'sieur, " was his formula. He would gaze at John for sections of anhour, with his flabby mouth open in speechless surprise as if at theunbelievable glory and magnificence of M'sieur. A nice lad, John Dudleywas, but no subtle enchanter; a stocky and well-set-up young man with awhole-souled, garrulous and breezy way, and a gift of slang and abrilliant grin. What called forth hero-worship towards him I neverunderstood; but no more had I understood why Mildred Thornton, ColonelThornton's young sister, my very beautiful cousin, should have selectedhim, from a large assortment of suitors, to marry. Indeed I did notentirely understand why I liked having John in camp better than anyoneelse; probably it was essentially the same charm which impelled Mildredto want to live with him, and the Tin Lizzie to fall down and worship. In any case the Lizzie worshipped with a primitive and unashamed andenduring adoration, which stood even the test of fear. That was thesupreme test for the Tin Lizzie, who was a coward of cowards. Rathercruelly I bet John on a day that his satellite did not love him enoughto go out to the club-house alone for him, and the next day John was insore need of tobacco, not to be got nearer than the club. 

"Aristophe will go out and get it for me, " he announced asAristophe--the Lizzie--trotted about the table at lunch-time purveyingus flapjacks. 

The Tin Lizzie stood rooted a second, petrified at the revolutionaryscheme of his going to the club, companions unmentioned. There one sawas if through glass an idea seeking a road through his smooth graymatter. One had always gone to the club with Josef, or Maxime orPierre--certainly M'sieur meant that; one would of course be glad togo--with Josef or Maxime or Pierre--to get tobacco for M'sieur John. Ofcourse, the idea slid through the old road in the almost unwrinkled graymatter, and came safely to headquarters. 

"C'est bien, M'sieur, " answered the Lizzie smiling brightly. 

And with that I knocked the silly little smile into a cocked hat. "Youmay start early tomorrow, Aristophe, " I said, "and get back by dark, going light, I can't spare any other men to go with you. But you willcertainly not mind going alone--to get tobacco for M'sieur John. "

The poor Tin Lizzie turned red and then white, and his weak mouth fellopen and his eyebrows lifted till the whites of his eyes showed abovethe gray irises. And one saw again, through the crystal of hisunexercised brain, the operation of a painful and new thought. M'sieurJohn--a day alone in the woods--love, versus fear--which would win. Johnand I watched the struggle a bit mercilessly. A grown man gets smallsympathy for being a coward. And yet few forms of suffering are keener. We watched; and the Tin Lizzie stood and gasped in the play of hisemotions. Nobody had ever given this son of the soil ideals to hold tothrough sudden danger; no sense of inherited honor to be guarded came tohelp the Lizzie; he had been taught to work hard and save hisskin--little else. The great adoration for John which had swept him offhis commonplace feet--was it going to make good against life-longselfish caution? We wondered. It was curious to watch the new bigfeeling fight the long-established petty one. And it was with a glow oftriumph quite out of drawing that we saw the generous instinct win thebattle. 

"Oui, M'sieur, " spoke Aristophe, unconscious of subtleties or watching. "I go tomorrow--alone. _C'est bien, M'sieur_. "

It was about the only remark I ever heard him make, that gracious:"_C'est bien, M'sieur_!" But he made it remarkably well. Almost hepersuaded me to respect him with that hearty response to the call ofduty, that humble and high gift of graciousness. One remembers him ashis dolly face lighted at John's order to go and clean trout or carry inlogs, and one does not forget the absurd, queer little fast trot atwhich his powerful young legs would instantaneously swing off to obeythe behest. Such was the Tin Lizzie, the guide who paddled bow in mycanvas canoe on the day of the celebrated frog hunt. 

That the frog hunt was celebrated was owing to the Lizzie. He shouldhave been in John's boat, as one of John's guides, but at the lastmoment, there was a confusion of tongues and Lizzie was shipped aboardmy canoe. In the excitement of the chase Josef, stern man, had facedabout to manipulate his landing-net; Aristophe also slewed around and, sitting on the gunwale, became stern paddler. I was in the middlescrewed anyhow, watching the frog fishing and enjoying the enjoyment ofthe men. Poor chaps, it was the only bit of personal play they got outof our month of play. Aristophe, the Tin Lizzie, was quite mad with theexcitement even from his very second fiddle standpoint of paddler toJosef's frogging. His enormous gray eyes snapped, his teeth showed whiteand gold around his pipe--which he nearly bit off--and he even usedlanguage. 

"_Tiens! Encore un!_" hissed the Lizzie in a blood-curdling whisper as anew pair of pop eyes lifted from the edge of a rotten log. 

And Josef, who had always seen the frog first, fired a gutturalsentence, full of contempt, full of friendliness, for he sized up theLizzie, his virtues and his limitations, accurately. And then the boatwas pushed and pulled in the shallow water till Josef and the net werewithin range. With, that came the slow approach of the net to the smile, the swift tap on the eatable legs, and headlong into his finish leapedM. Crapaud. Which is rot his correct name, Josef tells me, in theseparts, but M. Guarron. And that, being translated, means Mr. Very-Big-Bull-Frog. 

Business had prospered to fourteen or fifteen head of frogs, and wecalculated that the other boat might have a dozen when, facing towardsAristophe, I saw his dull, fresh face suddenly change. My pulse missed abeat at that expression. It was adequate to an earthquake or suddendeath. How the fatuous doll-like features could have been made toregister that stare of a soul in horror I can't guess. But they did. Thewhites of his eyes showed an eighth of an inch above the irises and hisblack eyebrows were shot up to the roots of his glossy black hair. Inthe gleaming white and gold of his teeth the pipe was still gripped. Andwhile I gazed, astonished, his unfitting deep voice issued from thatmask of fear:

"_Tiens! Encore un!_" And I screwed about and saw that the Lizzie wasrunning the boat on top of an enormous frog which he had not spied tillthe last second. With that Josef exploded throaty language and leaningsidewise made a dive at the frog. Aristophe, unbalanced with emotion andJosef's swift movement shot from his poise at the end of the littlecraft, and landed, in a foot of water, flat on his buck, and the frogseized that second to jump on his stomach. 

I never heard an Indian really laugh before that day. The hillsresounded with Josef's shouts. We laughed, Josef and I, till we wereweak, and for a good minute Aristophe sprawled in the lake, with thefrog anchored as if till Kingdom come on his middle, and howled lustyhowls while we laughed. Then Josef fished the frog and got him off theTin Lizzie's lungs. And Aristophe, weeping, scrambled into the boat. Andas we went home in the cool forest twilight, up the portage by therushing, noisy rapids, Josef, walking before us, carrying thelanding-net full of frogs' legs, shook with laughter every little whileagain, as Aristophe, his wet strong young legs, the only section of himshowing, toiled ahead up the winding thread of a trail, carrying theinverted canoe on his head. 

It was this adventure which came to me and seized me and carried me athousand miles northward into Canadian forest as I looked at the frogs'legs on my plate at the Cosmic Club, and did not listen to my cousin, the Colonel, talking military tactics. 

The mental review took an eighth of the time it has taken me to tell it. But as I shook off my dream of the woods, I realized that, whileThornton still talked, he had got out of his uninteresting rut into hisinteresting one. Without hearing what he said I knew that from the lookof the men's faces. Each man's eyes were bright, through a manner ofmistiness, and there was a sudden silence which was perhaps what hadrecalled me. 

"It's a war which is making a new standard of courage, " spoke the youngGovernor in the gentle tone which goes so oddly and so pleasantly withhis bull-dog jaw. "It looks as if we were going to be left with a worldwhere heroism is the normal thing, " spoke the Governor. 

"Heroism--yes, " said Bobby, and I knew with satisfaction that he was offon his own line, the line he does not fancy, the line where few candistance him. "Heroism!" repeated Bobby, "It's all around out there. Andit crops out--" he begun to smile--"in unsuspected places, from variedimpulses. "

He was working his way to an anecdote. The men at the table, theirchairs twisted towards him, sat very still. 

"What I mean to say is, " Bobby began, "that this war, horrible as it is, is making over human, nature for the better. It's burning outselfishness and cowardice and a lot of faults from millions of men, andit's holding up the nobility of what some of them do to the entireworld. It takes a character, this débâcle, and smashes out thelittleness. Another thing is curious. If a small character has one goodpoint on which to hang heroism, the battle-spirit searches out thatpoint and plants on it the heroism. There was a stupid young private inmy command who--but I'm afraid I'm telling too many war stories, " Bobbyappealed, interrupting himself. "I'm full of it, you see, and whenpeople are so good, and listen--" He stopped, in a confusion which isnot his least attractive manner. 

From down the table came a quick murmur of voices. I saw more than oneglance halt at the crutch on the back of the soldier's chair. 

"Thank you. I'd really like to tell about this man. It's interesting, psychologically to me, " he went on, smiling contentedly. He is a lovablechap, my cousin Robert Thornton. "The lad whom I speak of, aFrench-Canadian from Quebec Province, was my servant, my batman, as theIndian army called them and as we refer to them often now. He was sobrainless that I just missed firing him the first day I had him. ButJohn Dudley, my brother-in-law and lieutenant, wanted me to give him achance, and also there was something in his manner when I gave himorders which attracted me. He appeared to have a pleasure in serving, and an ideal of duty. Dudley had used him as a guide, and the man had adog-like devotion to 'the lieutenant' which counted with me. Also hedidn't talk. I think he knew only four words. I flung orders at him andthere would be first a shock of excitement, then a second of tenseanxiety, then a radiant smile and the four words: '_C'est bien, MonCapitaine_. ' I was captain then. "

At that point I dropped my knife and fork and stared at my cousin. Hewent on. 

"'_C'est bien, Mon Capitaine_. ' That was the slogan. And when theprocess was accomplished, off he would trot, eager to do my will. He waspowerful and well-built, but he had the oddest manner of locomotion everI saw, a trot like--like a Ford car. I discovered pretty soon that thepoor wretch was a born coward. I've seen him start at the distant soundof guns long before we got near the front, and he was nervous at goingout alone at night about the camp. The men ragged him, but he was sucha friendly rascal and so willing to take over others' work that he gotalong with a fraction of the persecution most of his sort would havehad. I wondered sometimes what would happen to the poor little devilwhen actual fighting came. Would it be '_C'est bien, Mon Capitaine_, ' atthe order to go over the top, or would the terrible force of fear be toomuch for him and land him at last with his back to a wall and a firingsquad in front--a deserter? Meantime he improved and I got dependent onhis radiant good will. Being John Dudley's brother-in-law sanctified mewith him, and nothing was too much trouble if I'd give him a chancesometimes to clean John's boots. I have a man now who shows no ecstacyat being ordered to do my jobs, and I don't like him. 

"We were moved up towards the front, and, though Mr. Winston Churchillhas made a row about the O. S. --the officers' servants who are removedfrom the firing line, I know that a large proportion of them do theirshare in the trenches. I saw to it that mine did. 

"One night there was a digging expedition. An advance trench was to bemade in No Man's Land about a hundred and fifty yards from the Germans. I was in command of the covering party of thirty-five men; I was acaptain. We, of course, went out ahead. Beauramé was in the party. Itwas his first fighting. We had rifles, with bayonets, and bombs, and acouple of Lewis guns. We came up to the trenches by a road, then wentinto the zigzag communication trenches up to the front, the fire-trench. Then, very cautiously, over the top into No Man's Land. It was nervouswork, for at any second they might discover us and open fire. It suitedus all to be as quiet as human men could be, and when once in a while astar-shell, a Very light, was sent up from the German lines we froze inour tracks till the white glare died out. 

"The party had been digging for perhaps an hour when hell broke loose. They'd seen us. All about was a storm of machine-gun and rifle bullets, and we dropped on our faces, the diggers in their trench--pretty shallowit was. As for the covering party, we simply took our medicine. Andthen the shrapnel joined the music. Word was passed to get back to thetrenches, and we started promptly. We stooped low as we ran over NoMan's Land, but there were plenty of casualties. I got mine in the foot, but not the wound which rung in this--" Thornton nodded his head at thecrutches with a smile. "It was from a bit of shrapnel just as I made thetrench, and as I fell in I caught at the sand bags and whirled aboutfacing out over No Man's Land; as I whirled I saw, close by, Beauramé'sface in a shaft of light. I don't know why I made conversation at thatmoment--I did. I said:

"When did you get back?"

And his answer came as if clicked on a typewriter. "Me, I stayed, _MonCapitaine_. It had an air too dangerous, out there. "

I stared in a white rage. You'll imagine--one of my men to dare tell methat! And at that second, simultaneously, came the flare of a shell starand a shout of a man struck down, and I knew the voice--John Dudley. Hewas out there, the tail end of the party, wounded. I saw him as hefell, on the farther side of the new trench. Of course, one's instinctwas to dash back and bring him in, and I started. And I found my footgone--I couldn't walk. Quicker than I can tell it I turned to Beauramé, the coward, who'd been afraid to go over the top, and I said in French, because, though I hadn't time to think it out, I yet realized that itwould get to him faster so--I said:

"Get over there, you deserter. Save the lieutenant--Lieutenant Dudley. Go. "

For one instant I thought it was no good and I was due to have him shot, if we both lived through the night. And then--I never in my life sawsuch a face of abject fear as the one he turned first to me and thenacross that horror of No Man's Land. The whites of his eyes showed, itseemed, an eighth of an inch above the irises; his black eyebrows werehalf way up his forehead, and his teeth, luxuriously upholstered withfillings, shone white and gold in the unearthly light. It was such a madterror as I'd never seen before, and never since. And into it I, madtoo with the thought of my sister if I let young John Dudley die beforemy eyes--I bombed again the order to go out and bring in Dudley. Iremember the fading and coming expressions on that Frenchman's face likethe changes on a moving picture film. I suppose it was half a minute. And here was the coward face gazing into mine, transfigured into theface of a man who cared about another man more than himself--a commonman whose one high quality was love. 

"_C'est bien, Mon Capitaine_, " Beauramé spoke, through still clickingteeth, and with his regulation smile of good will he had sprung over theparapet in one lithe movement, and I saw him crouching, trotting thatabsurd, powerful fast trot through the lane in our barbed wire, likelightning, to the shallow new trench, to Dudley. I saw him--for theGermans had the stretch lighted--I saw the man pick up my brother-in-lawand toss him over his shoulders and start trotting back. Then I saw himfall, both of them fall, and I knew that he'd stopped a bullet. Andthen, as I groaned, somehow Beauramé was on his feet again. I expected, that he'd bolt for cover, but he didn't. He bent over deliberately as ifhe had been a fearless hero--and maybe he was--and he picked up Dudleyagain and started on, laboring, this time in walking. He was hit badly. But he made the trench; he brought in Dudley. 

Then such a howl of hurrahs greeted him from the men who watched therescue as poor little Aristophe Beauramé--"

"Ah!" I interjected, and Bobby turned and stared--"as the poor littlescared rat had not dreamed, or had any right to dream would ever greethis conduct on earth. He dropped Dudley at my feet and turned with hisflabby mouth open and his great stupid eyes like saucers, towards themen who rushed to shake his hand and throw at him words of admirationthat choked them to get out. And then he keeled over. So you see. It wasan equal chance at one second, whether a man should be shot for adeserter or--win the Victoria Cross. "

"What!" I shouted at my guest. "What! Not the Victoria Cross! NotAristophe!"

Bobby looked at me in surprise. "You're a great claque for me, " he said. "You seem to take an interest in my hero. Yes, he got it. He was badlyhurt. One hand nearly gone and a wound in his side. I was lucky enoughto be in London on a day three months later, and to be present at theceremony, when the young French-Canadian, spoiled for a soldier, butsplendid stuff now for a hero, stood out in the open before the troopsin front of Buckingham Palace and King George pinned the V. C. On hisbreast. They say that he's back in his village, and the whole show. Ihear that he tells over and over the story of his heroism and the rescueof '_Mon Lieutenant_. ' to never failing audiences. Of course, John islooking after him, for the hand which John saved was the hand that wasshot to pieces in saving John, and the Tin Lizzie can never make hisliving with that hand again. A deserter, a coward--decorated by the Kingwith the Victoria Cross! Queer things happen in war!" There was a stir, a murmur as of voices, of questions beginning, but Bobby was not quitethrough. 

"War takes the best of the best men, and the best of the cheapest, andtransfigures both. War doesn't need heroes for heroism. She pins it onanywhere if there's one spot of greatness in a character. War doesstrange things with humanity, " said Bobby. 

And I, gasping, broke out crudely in three words: "Our Tin Lizzie!" Isaid, and nobody knew in the least what I meant, or with what memories Isaid it. 

HE THAT LOSETH HIS LIFE SHALL FIND IT

The Red Cross women had gone home. Half an hour before, the largelibrary had been filled with white-clad, white-veiled figures. Two longtables full, forty of them today, had been working; three thousandsurgical dressings had been cut and folded and put away in large boxeson shelves behind glass doors where the most valuable books had heldtheir stately existence for years. The books were stowed now in trunksin the attic. These were war days; luxuries such as first editions mustwait their time. The great living-room itself, the center of home forthis family since the two boys were born and ever this family had been, the dear big room with its dark carved oak, and tapestries, and stainedglass, and books, and memories was given over now to war relief work. 

Sometimes, as the mistress walked into the spacious, low-ceilinged, bright place, presences long past seemed to fill it intolerably. Brockand Hugh, little chaps, roared in untidy and tumultuous from football, or came, decorous and groomed, handsome, smart little lads, to bepresented to guests. Her own Hugh, her husband, proud of the beautifulnew house, smiled from the hearth to her as he had smiled twenty-sixyears back, the night they came in, a young Hugh, younger than Brock wasnow. Her father and mother, long gone over "to the majority, " and theexquisite old ivory beauty of a beautiful grandmother--such ghosts roseand faced the woman as she stepped into the room where they had moved inlife, the room with its loveliness marred by two long tables coveredwith green oilcloth, by four rows of cheap chairs, by rows and rows ofboxes on shelves where soft and bright and dark colors of books hadglowed. She felt often that she should explain matters to the room, should tell the walls which had sheltered peace and hospitality that shehad consecrated them to yet higher service. Never for one instant, while her soul ached for the familiar setting, had she regretted itssacrifice. That her soul did ache made it worth while. 

And the women gathered for this branch Red Cross organization, herneighbors on the edge of the great city, wives and daughters and mothersof clerks, and delivery-wagon drivers, and icemen, and night-watchmen, women who had not known how to take their part in the war work in thecity or had found it too far to go, these came to her house gladly andall found pleasure in her beautiful room. That made it a joy to give itup to them. She stood in the doorway, feeling an emphasis in the quietof the July afternoon because of the forty voices which had lately goneout of the sunshiny silence, of the forty busy figures in long, whiteaprons and white, sweeping veils, the tiny red cross gleaming over theforehead of each one, each face lovely in the uniform of service, alloddly equalized and alike under their veils and crosses. She spoke aloudas she tossed out her hands to the room:

"War will be over some day, and you will be our own again, but foreverholy because of this. You will be a room of history when you go toBrock--"

Brock! Would Brock ever come home to the room, to this place which heloved? Brock, in France! She turned sharply and went out through thelong hall and across the terrace, and sat down where the steps droppedto the garden, on the broad top step, with her head against the pillarof the balustrade. Above her the smell of box in a stone vase on thepillar punctured the mild air with its definite, reminiscent fragrance. Box is a plant of antecedents of sentiment, of memories. The womaninhaling its delicate sharpness, was caught back into days past. Sheconsidered, in rapid jumps of thought, events, episodes, epochs. The dayBrock was born, on her own twentieth birthday, up-stairs where the rosychintz curtains blew now out of the window; the first day she had comedown to the terrace--it was June--and the baby lay in his bassinet bythe balustrade in that spot--she looked at the spot--the baby, her bigBrock, a bundle of flannel and fine, white stuff in lacy frills of thebassinet. And she loved him; she remembered how she had loved that baby, how, laughing at herself, she had whispered silly words over the stolid, pink head; how the girl's heart of her had all but burst with theastonishing new tide of a feeling which seemed the greatest of which shewas capable. Yet it was a small thing to the way she loved Brock now. Avision came of little Hugh, three years younger, and the two toddlingabout the terrace together, Hugh always Brock's satellite and adorer, aswas fitting; less sturdy, less daring than Brock, yet ready to goanywhere if only the older baby led. She thought of the day when Hugh, four years old, had taken fright at a black log among the bushes underthe trees. 

"It's a bear!" little Hugh had whispered, shaking, and Brock, brave butnot too certain, had looked at her, inquiring. 

"No, love, it's not a bear; it's an old log of wood. Go and put yourhand on it, Hughie. "

Little Hugh had cried out and shrunk back. "I'm afraid!" cried littleHugh. 

And Brock, not entirely clear as to the no-bear theory, had yet bluffedmanfully. "Come on, Hughie; let's go and bang 'um, " said Brock. 

Which invitation Hugh accepted reluctantly with a condition, "If you'llhold my hand, B'ocky. "

The woman turned her head to see the place where the black log had lain, there in the old high bushes. And behold! Two strong little figures inwhite marched along--she could all but see them today--and the biggerlittle figure was dragging the other a bit, holding a hand withmasterful grip. She could hear little Hugh's laughter as they arrived atthe terrible log and found it truly a log. Even now Hugh's laugh wasmusic. 

"Why, it's nuffin but an old log o' wood!" little Hugh had squealed, asbrave as a lion. 

As she sat seeing visions, old Mavourneen, Brock's Irish wolf-hound, came and laid her muzzle on the woman's shoulder, crying a bit, as wasMavourneen's Irish way, for pleasure at finding the mistress. And withthat there was a brown ripple and a patter of many soft feet, and abroken wave of dogs came around the corner, seven little cairn-terriers. Sticky and Sandy and their offspring. The woman let Sticky settle in herlap and drew Sandy under her arm, and the puppies looked up at her fromthe step below with ten serious, anxious eyes and then fell to chasingquite imaginary game up and down the stone steps. Mavourneen sigheddeeply and dropped with a heavy thud, a great paw on the edge of thewhite dress and her beautiful head resting on her paws, the topaz, watchful eyes gazing over the city. The woman put her free hand back andtouched the rough head. 

"Dear dog!" she spoke. 

Another memory came: how they had bought Mavourneen, she and Hugh andthe boys, at the kennels in Ireland, eight years ago; how the huge babyhad been sent to them at Liverpool in a hamper; the uproarious drive thefour of them--Hugh, the two boys, and herself--and Mavourneen had takenin a taxi across the city. The puppy, astonished and investigatingthroughout the whole proceeding, had mounted all of them, separately andtogether, and insisted on lying in big Hugh's lap, cryingbroken-heartedly at not being allowed. How they had shouted laughter, the four and the boy taxi-driver, all the journey, till they ached! Whatgood times they had always had together, the young father and mother andthe two big sons! She reflected how she had not been at all theconventional mother of sons. She had not been satisfied to be gentle andbenevolent and look after their clothes and morals. She had lived theirlives with them, she had ridden and gone swimming with them, and playedtennis and golf, and fished and shot and skated and walked with them, yes, and studied and read with them, all their lives. 

"I haven't any respect for my mother, " young Hugh told her one day. "Ilike her like a sister. "

She was deeply pleased at this attitude; she did not wish their respectas a visible quality. Vision after vision came of the old times andcare-free days while the four, as happy and normal a family as lived inthe world, passed their alert, full days together before the war. Memoryafter memory took form in the brain of the woman, the center of thatlight-hearted life so lately changed, so entirely now a memory. War hadcome. 

At first, in 1914, there had been excitement, astonishment. Then thehorror of Belgium. One refused to believe that at first; it was a luridslander on the kindly German people; then one believed with the brain;one's spirit could not grasp it. Unspeakable deeds such as the Germans'deeds--it was like a statement made concerning a fourth dimension ofspace; civilized modern folk were not so organized as to realize thefacts of that bestiality. 

"Aren't you thankful we're Americans?" the woman had said over and over. 

One day her husband, answering usually with a shake of the head, answered in words. "We may be in it yet, " he said. "I'm not sure but weought to be. "

Brock, twenty-one then, had flashed at her: "I want to be in it. I mayjust have to be, mother. "

Young Hugh yawned a bit at that, and stretching his long arm, he pattedhis brother's shoulder. "Good old hero, Brock! I'll beat you a set oftennis. Come on. "

That sudden speech of Brock's had startled her, had brought the war, ina jump which was like a stab, close. The war and Lindow--theirplace--how was it possible that this nightmare in Europe could touch thepeace of the garden, the sunlit view of the river, the trees with birdssinging in them, the scampering of the dogs down the drive? The distanthint of any connection between the great horror and her own was pain;she put the thought away. 

Then the _Lusitania_ was sunk. All America shouted shame through sobs ofrage. The President wrote a beautiful and entirely satisfactory note. 

"It should be war--war. It should be war today, " Hugh had said, herhusband. "We only waste time. We'll have to fight sooner or later. Thesooner we begin, the sooner we'll finish. "

"Fight!" young Hugh threw at him. "What with? We can just about makefaces at 'em, father. "

The boy's father did not laugh. "We had better get ready to do more thanmake faces; we've got to get ready. " He hammered his hand on the stonebalustrade. "I'm going to Plattsburg this summer, Evelyn. "

"I'm going with you. " Brock's voice was low and his mouth set, and thewoman, looking at him, saw suddenly that her boy was a man. 

"Well, then, as man power is getting low at Lindow, I'll stay and takecare of Mummy. Won't I? We'll do awfully well without them, won't we, Mum? You can drive Dad's Rolls-Royce roadster, and if you leave on thehandbrake up-hill, I'll never tell. "

Father and son had gone off for the month in camp, and, glad as she wasto have the younger boy with her, there was yet an uneasy, an almostsubconscious feeling about him, which she indignantly denied each timethat it raised its head. It never quite phrased itself, this fear, thiswonder if Hugh were altogether as American as his father and brother. Question the courage and patriotism of her own boy? She flung thethought from her as again and yet again it came. People of the sameblood were widely different. To Brock and his father it had come easilyto do the obvious thing, to go to Plattsburg. It had not so come toyoung Hugh, but that in good time he would see his duty and do it shewould not for an instant doubt. She would not break faith with the ladin thought. With a perfect delicacy she avoided any word that wouldinfluence him. He knew. All his life he had breathed loyalty. It was sheherself, reading to them night after night through years, who had taughtthe boys hero worship--above all, worship of American heroes, Washington, Paul Jones, Perry, Farragut, Lee; how Dewey had said, "Youmay fire now, Gridley, if you are ready"; how Clark had brought the_Oregon_ around the continent; how Scott had gone alone among angryIndians. She had taught them such names, names which will not die whileAmerica lives. It was she who had told the little lads, listeningwide-eyed, that as these men had held life lightly for the glory ofAmerica, so her sons, if need came, must be ready to offer their livesfor their country. She remembered how Brock, his round face suddenlyscarlet, had stammered out:

"I _am_ ready, Mummy. I'd die this minute for--for America. Wouldn'tyou, Hughie?"

And young Hugh, a slim, blond angel of a boy, of curly, golden hair andunexpected answers, had ducked beneath the hero, upsetting him into ahedge to his infinite anger. "I wouldn't die right now, Brocky, " saidHugh. "There's going to be chocolate cake for lunch. "

One could never count on Hugh's ways of doing things, but Brock was astone wall of reliability. She smiled, thinking of his youth and beautyand entire boyishness, to think yet of the saying from the Bible whichalways suggested Brock, "Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mindis stayed on Thee. " It was so with the lad; through the gay heart andeager interest in life pulsed an atmosphere of deep religiousness. Hewas always "in perfect peace, " and his mother, less balanced, had stayedher mind on that quiet and right young mind from its very babyhood. Thelad had seen his responsibilities and lifted them all his life. It cameto her how, when her own mother, very dear to Brock, had died, she hadnot let the lads go with her to the house of death for fear of saddeningtheir youth, and how, when she and their father came home from the hard, terrible business of the funeral, they met little Hugh on the drive, rapturous at seeing them again, rather absorbed in his new dog. ButBrock, then fourteen, was in the house alone, quiet, his fresh, dearface red with tears, and a black necktie of his father's, too large forhim, tied under his collar. Of all the memories of her boys, thatgrotesque black tie was the most poignant and most precious. It saidmuch. It said: "I also, O, my mother, am of my people. I have a right totheir sorrows as well as to their joys, and if you do not give me myplace in trouble, I shall do what I can alone, being but a boy. I shallgive up play, and I shall wear mourning as I can, not knowing how verywell, but pushed by all my being to be with my own in their mourning. "

Quickly affection for the other lad asserted itself. Brock and Hugh weredifferent, but Hugh was a dear boy, too--undeveloped, that was all. Hehad never taken life seriously, little Hugh, and now that this war-cloudhung over the world, he simply refused to look at it; he turned away hisface. That was all, a temperament which loved harmony and shrank fromugliness; these things were young Hugh's limitations, and no ignoblequality. 

In a long dream, yet much faster than the words have told it, incomprehensive flashes of memory, her elbows on her knees and her face, in her slender hands, looking out over the garden with its arched way ofroses, with its high hedge, looking past the loveliness that was home tothe city pulsing in summer heat, to the shining zigzag of river beyondthe city, the woman reviewed her boys' lives. Boys were not now merelyone phase of humanity; they had suddenly become the nation. They stoodin the foreground of a world crisis; back of them America was ranged, orderly, living and moving to feed, clothe, and keep happy thesemillions of lads holding in their hands the fate of the earth. Her boyswere but two, yet necessary. She owed them to the country, as othermothers of men. 

There was a whistle under the archway, a flying step, and young Hughshot from beneath the rosiness of Dorothy Perkins vines and took thestone steps in four bounds. All the dogs fell into a community chorus ofbarks and whines and patterings about, and Hugh's hands were on this oneand that as he bent over the woman. 

"A _good_ kiss, Mummy; that's cold baked potato, " he complained, and shelaughed and hugged him. 

"Not cold; I was just thinking. Your knee, Hughie? You came up like abird. "

Hugh made a face. "Bad break, that, " he grinned, and limped across theterrace and back. "Mummy, it doesn't hurt much now, and I do forget, "he explained, and his color deepened. With that: "Tom Arthur is waitingfor me in town. We're going to pick up Whitney, the tennis champion, atthe Crossroads Club. May I take Dad's roadster?"

"Yes, Hughie. And, Hugh, meet the train, the seven-five. Dad's comingto-night, you know. "

The boy took her hand, looked at her uneasily. "Mummy, dear, don't bethinking sinful thoughts about me. And don't let Dad. Hold your fire, Mummy. "

She lifted her face, and her eyes were the eyes of faith he had knownall his life. "You blessed boy of mine, I will hold my fire. " And thenHugh had all but knocked her over with a violent kiss again, and heslammed happily through the screen doors and was leaping up the stairs. Ten minutes later she heard the car purring down the drive. 

The dogs settled about her with long dog-sighs again. She looked at herwrist--only five-thirty. She went back with a new unrest to herthoughts. Hugh's knee--it was odd; it had lasted a long time, eversince--she shuddered a bit, so that old Mavourneen lifted her head andobjected softly--ever since war was declared. Over a year! To be sure, he had hurt it again badly, slipping on the ice in December, just as itwas getting strong. She wished that his father would not be so grim whenHugh's bad knee was mentioned. What did he mean? Did he dare to thinkher boy--the word was difficult even mentally--a slacker? With that hermind raced back to the days just before Hugh had hurt this knee. It wasin February that Germany had proclaimed the oceans closed except alongGerman paths, at German times. "This is war at last, " her husband hadsaid, and she knew the inevitable had come. 

Night after night she had lain awake facing it, sometimes breaking downutterly and shaking her soul out in sobs, sometimes trying to see waysaround the horror, trying to believe that war must end before our troopscould get ready, often with higher courage glorying that she might giveso much for country and humanity. Then, in the nights, things that shehad read far back, unrealizing, rose and confronted her withawful reality. Brutalities, atrocities, wounds, barbarouscaptivity--nightmares which the Germans had dug out of the grave ofsavagery and sent stalking over the earth--such rose and stood beforethe woman lying awake night after night. At first her soul hid its facein terror at the gruesome thoughts; at first her mind turned and fledand refused to believe. Her boys, Brock and Hugh! It was not credible, it was not reasonable, it was out of drawing that her good boys, herprecious boys trained to be happy and help the world, to live useful, peaceful lives, should be snatched from home, here in America, andpitched into the ghastly struggle of Europe. Push back the ocean as shemight, the ocean surged every day nearer. 

Daytimes she was as brave as the best. She could say: "If we had done itthe day after the _Lusitania_, that would have been right. It would havebeen all over now. " She could say: "My boys? They will do their dutylike other women's boys. " But nights, when she crept into bed and thethings she had read of Belgium, of Serbia, came and stood about her, sheknew that hers were the only boys in the world who could not, _could_not be spared. Brock and Hugh! It seemed as if it would be apparent tothe dullest that Brock and Hugh were different from all others. Shecould suffer; she could have gone over there light-hearted and faced anydanger to save _them_. Of course! That was natural! But--Brock and Hugh!The little heads that had lain in the hollow of her arm; the noisylittle boys who had muddied their white clothes, and broken furniture, and spilled ink; the tall, beautiful lads who had been her pride and hereverlasting joy, her playmates, her lovers--Brock and Hugh! Why, therehad never been on earth love and friendship in any family close andunfailing like that of the four. 

Night after night, nearer and nearer, the ghosts from Belgium and Serbiaand Poland stood about her bed, and she fought with them as one hadfought with the beasts at Ephesus. Day after day she cheered Brock andthe two Hughs and filled them with fresh patriotism. Of course, shewould not have her own fail in a hair's breadth of eager service totheir flag. Of course! And as she lifted up, for their sakes, herheart, behold a miracle, for her heart grew high! She began to feel thewords she said. It came to her in very truth that to have the world asone wanted it was not now the point; the point was a greater goal whichshe had never in her happy life even visualized. It began to rise beforeher, a distant picture glorious through a mist of suffering, somethingbuilt of the sacrifice, and the honor, and the deathless bravery ofmillions of soldiers in battle, of millions of mothers at home. Theeducation of a nation to higher ideals was reaching the quiet backwaterof this one woman's soul. There were lovelier things than life; therewere harder things than death. Service is the measure of living. If theboys were to compress years of good living into a flame of servinghumanity for six months, who was she, what was life here, that sheshould be reluctant? To play the game, for herself and her sons, thiswas the one thing worth while. More and more entirely, as the stress ofthe strange, hard vision crowded out selfishness, this woman, asthousands and tens of thousands all over America, lifted up herheart--the dear things that filled and were her heart--unto the Lord. 

And with that she was aware of a recurring unrest. She was aware thatthere was something her husband did not say to her about the boys, aboutyoung Hugh. Brock had been hard to hold for nearly two years now, buthis father had thought for reasons, that he should not serve until hisown flag called him. Now it would soon be calling, and Brock would goinstantly. But young Hugh? What did the boy's attitude mean?

"I can't make out Hughie, " his father had said to her in March, 1917, when it was certain that war was coming. "What does this devil-may-carepose about the war mean?"

And she answered: "Let Hughie work it out, Hugh. He's in trouble in hismind, but he'll come through. We'll give him time. "

"Oh, very well, " Hugh the elder had agreed, "but young Americans willhave to take their stand shortly. I couldn't bear it if a son of minewere a slacker. "

She tossed out her hands. "Slacker! Don't dare say it of my boy!"

The hideous word followed her. That night, when she lay in bed andlooked out into the moonlit wood, and saw the pines swaying like giantfans across a pulsing, pale sky, and listened to the summer wind blowingthrough the tall heads of them, again through the peace of it the wordstabbed. A slacker! She set to work to fancy how it would be if Brockand Hugh both went to war and were both killed. She faced the thought. Life--years of it--without Brock and Hugh! She registered that steadilyin her mind. Then she painted to herself another picture, Brock and Hughnot going to war, at home ignominiously safe. Other women's sonsmarching out into the danger--men, heroes! Brock and Hugh explaining, steadily explaining why they had not gone! Brock and Hugh after the war, mature men, meeting returning soldiers, old friends who had borne theburden and heat, themselves with no memories of hideous, infinitelyprecious days, of hardships, and squalid trench life, and deadlypain--for America! Brock and Hugh going on through life into old ageashamed to hold up their heads and look their comrades in the eye! Orelse--it might be--Brock and Hugh lying next year, this year, inunknown, honored graves in France! Which was worse? And the aching heartof the woman did not wait to answer. Better a thousand times brave deaththan a coward's life. She would choose so if she knew certainly that shesent them both to death. The education of the war, the new glory ofpatriotism, had already gone far in this one woman. 

And then the thought stabbed again--a slacker--Hugh! How did his fatherdare say it? A poisonous terror, colder than the fear of death, crawledinto her soul and hid there. Was it possible that Hugh, brilliant, buoyant, temperamental Hugh was--that? The days went on, and the cold, vile thing stayed coiled in her soul. It was on the very day war wasdeclared that young Hugh injured his knee, a bad injury. When he wascarried home, when the doctor cut away his clothes and bent over theswollen leg and said wise things about the "bursa, " the boy's eyes werehard to meet. They constantly sought hers with a look questioning andanxious. Words were impossible, but she tried to make her glance andmanner say: "I trust you. Not for worlds would I believe you did it onpurpose. "

And finally the lad caught her hand and with his mouth against it spoke. "_You_ know I didn't do it on purpose, Mummy. "

And the cold horror fled out of her heart, and a great relief floodedher. 

On a day after that Brock came home from camp, and, though he might nottell it in words, she knew that he would sail shortly for France. Shekept the house full of brightness and movement for the three days he hadat home, yet the four--young Hugh on crutches now--clung to each other, and on the last afternoon she and Brock were alone for an hour. They hadsat just here after tennis, in the hazy October weather, and pink-brownleaves had floated down with a thin, pungent fragrance and lay on thestone steps in vague patterns. Scarlet geraniums bloomed back of Brock'shead and made a satisfying harmony with the copper of his tanned face. They fell to silence after much talking, and finally she got outsomething which had been in her mind but which it had been hard to say. 

"Brocky, " she began, and jabbed the end of her racket into her foot sothat it hurt, because physical pain will distract and steady a mind. "Brocky, I want to ask you to do something. "

"Yes'm, " answered Brock. 

"It's this. Of course, I know you're going soon, over there. "

Brock looked at her gravely. 

"Yes, I know, I want to ask you if--if _it_ happens--will you come andtell me yourself? If it's allowed. "

Brock did not even touch her hand; he knew well she could not bear it. He answered quietly, with a sweet, commonplace manner as if that otherworld to which he might be going was a place too familiar in histhoughts for any great strain in speaking of it. "Yes, Mummy, " he said. "Of course I will. I'd have wanted to anyway, even if you hadn't saidit. It seems to me--" He lifted his young face, square-jawed, fresh-colored, and there was a vision-seeing look in his eyes which hismother had known at times before. He looked across the city lying attheir feet, and the river, and the blue hills beyond, and he spokeslowly, as if shaping a thought. "So many fellows have 'gone west'lately that there must he some way. It seems as if all that mass of loveand--and desire to reach back and touch--the ones left--as if all thatmust have built a sort of bridge over the river--so that a fellow mightprobably come back and--and tell his mother--"

Brock's voice stopped, and suddenly she was in his arms, his face wasagainst hers, and hot tears not her own were on her cheek. Then he wasshaking his head as if to shake off the strong emotion. 

"It's not likely to happen, dear. The casualties in this war aretremendously lower than in--"

"I know, " she interrupted. "Of course, they are. Of course, you'recoming home without a scratch, and likely a general, and conceitedbeyond words. How will we stand you!"

Brock laughed delightedly. "You're a peach, " he stated. "That's thesort. Laughing mothers to send us off--it makes a whale of adifference. "

That October afternoon had now dropped eight months back, and still thehouse seemed lost without Brock, especially on this June twentieth, theday that was his and hers, the day when there had always been "doings"second only to Christmas at Lindow. But she gathered up her courage likea woman. Hugh the elder was coming tonight from his dollar-a-year workin Washington, her man who had moved heaven and earth to get into activeservice, and who, when finally refused because of his forty-nine yearsand a defective eye, had left his great business as if it were a joke, and had put his whole time, and strength, and experience, and fortune atthe service of the Government--as plenty of other American men weredoing. Hugh was coming in time for her birthday dinner, and young Hughwas with them--Her heart shrank as if a sharp thing touched it. Howwould it be when they rose to drink Brock's health? She knew pretty wellwhat her cousin, the judge, would say:

"The soldier in France! God bring him home well and glorious!"

How would it be for her other boy then, the boy who was not in France?Unphrased, a thought flashed, "I hope, I do hope Hughie will be verylame tonight. "

The little dog slipped from her and barked in remonstrance as she threwout her hands and stood up. Old Mavourneen pulled herself to her feet, too, a huge, beautiful beast, and the woman stooped and put her armlovingly about the furry neck. "Mavourneen, you know a lot. You know ourBrock's away. " At the name the big dog whined and looked up anxious, inquiring. "And you know--do you know, dear dog, that Hughie ought togo? Do you? Mavourneen, it's like the prayer-book says, 'The burden ofit is intolerable. ' I can't bear to lose him, and I can't, O God! Ican't bear to keep him. " She straightened. "As you say, Mavourneen, it's time to dress for dinner. "

The birthday party went better than one could have hoped. Nobody brokedown at Brock's name; everybody exulted in the splendid episode of hisheroism, months back, which had won him the war cross. The letter fromJim Colledge and his own birthday letter, garrulous and gay, were read. Brock had known well that the day would be hard to get through and hadmade that letter out of brutal cheerfulness. Yet every one felt hislonging to be at the celebration, missed for the first time in his life, pulsing through the words. Young Hugh read it and made it sweet with alovely devotion to and pride in his brother. A heart of stone could nothave resisted Hugh that night. And then the party was over, and thewoman and her man, seeing each other seldom now, talked over things foran hour. After, through her open door, she saw a bar of light under thedoor of the den, Brock's and Hugh's den. 

"Hughie, " she spoke, and on the instant the dark panel flashed intolight. 

"Come in, Mummy, I've been waiting to talk to you. "

"Waiting, my lamb?"

Hugh pushed her, as a boy shoves a sister, into the end of the sofa. There was a wood fire on the hearth in front of her, for the Juneevening was cool, and luxurious Hugh liked a fire. A reading lamp waslighted above Brock's deep chair, and there were papers on the floor byit, and more low lights. There were magazines about, and etchings on thewalls, and bits of university plunder, and the glow of rugs and ofbooks. It was as fascinating a place as there was in all the beautifulhouse. In the midst of the bright peace Hugh stood haggard. 

"Hughie! What is it?"

"Mother, " he whispered, "help me!"

"With my last drop of blood, Hugh. "

"I can't go on--alone--mother. " His eyes were wild, and his wordslabored into utterance. "I--I don't know what to do--mother. "

"The war, Hughie?"

"Of course! What else is there?" he flung at her. 

"But your knee?"

"Oh, Mummy, you know as well as I that my knee is well enough. Dad knowsit, too. The way he looks at me--or dodges looking! Mummy--I've got totell you--you'll have to know--and maybe you'll stop loving me. I'm--"He threw out his arms with a gesture of despair. "I'm--afraid to go. "With that he was on his knees beside her, and his arms gripped her, andhis head was hidden in her lap. For a long minute there was onlysilence, and the woman held the young head tight. 

Hugh lifted his face and stared from blurred eyes. "A man might betterbe dead than a coward--you're thinking that? That's it. " A sob stoppedhis voice, the young, dear voice. His face, drawn into lines of age, hurt her unbearably. She caught him against her and hid the beloved, impossible face. 

"Hugh--I--judging you--I? Why, Hughie, I _love_ you--I only love you. Idon't stand off and think, when it's you and Brock. I'm inside yourhearts, feeling it with you. I don't know if it's good or bad. It's--myown. Coward--Hughie! I don't think such things of my darling. "

"'There's no--friend like a mother, '" stammered young Hugh, and tearsfell unashamed. His mother had not seen the boy cry since he was tenyears old. He went on. "Dad didn't say a word, because he wouldn't spoilyour birthday, but the way he dodged--my knee--" He laughed miserablyand swabbed away tears with the corner of his pajama coat. "I wish I hada hanky, " he complained. The woman dried the tear-stained cheeks hastilywith her own. "Dad's got it in for me, " said Hugh. "I can tell. He'llmake me go--now. He--he suspects I went skating that day hoping I'dfall--and--I know it wasn't so darned unlikely. Yes--I did--not the firsttime--when I smashed it; that was entirely--luck. " He laughed again, alaugh that was a sob. "And now--oh, Mummy, have I _got_ to go into thatnightmare? I hate it so. I am--I _am_--afraid. If--if I should be thereand--and sent into some terrible job--shell-fire--dirt--smells--dead menand horses--filth--torture--mother, I might run. I don't feel sure. Ican't trust Hugh Langdon--he might run. Anyhow"--the lad sprang to hisfeet and stood before her--"anyhow--why am _I_ bound to get into this? Ididn't start it. My Government didn't. And I've everything, _everything_before me here. I didn't tell you, but that editor said--he said I'd beone of the great writers of the time. And I love it, I love that job. Ican do it. I can be useful, and successful, and an honor to you--andhappy, oh, so happy! If only I may do as Arnold said, be one ofAmerica's big writers! I've everything to gain here; I've everything tolose there. " He stopped and stood before her like a flame. 

And from the woman's mouth came words which she had not thought, as ifother than herself spoke them. "'What shall it profit a man, '" shespoke, "'if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'"

At that the boy plunged on his knees in collapse and sobbed miserably. "Mother, mother! Don't be merciless. "

"Merciless! My own laddie!" There seemed no words possible as shestroked the blond head with shaking hand. "Hughie, " she spoke when hissobs quieted. "Hughie, it's not how you feel; it's what you do. Ibelieve thousands and thousands of boys in this unwarlike country havegone--are going--through suffering like yours. "

Hugh lifted wet eyes. "Do you think so, Mummy?"

"Indeed I do. Indeed I do. And I pray that the women who love themare--faithful. For I know, I _know_ that if a woman lets her men, if amother let her sons fail their country now, those sons will neverforgive her. It's your honor I'm holding to, Hughie, against humaninstinct. After this war, those to be pitied won't be the sonlessmothers or the crippled soldiers--it will be the men of fighting age whohave not fought. Even if they could not, even at the best, they willspend the rest of their lives explaining why. "

Hugh sat on the sofa now, close to her, and his head dropped on hershoulder. "Mummy, that's some comfort, that dope about other fellowstaking it as I do. I felt lonely. I thought I was the only coward inAmerica. Dad's condemning me; he can't speak to me naturally. I felt asif"--his voice faltered--"as if I couldn't stand it if you hated me, too. "

The woman laughed a little. "Hughie, you know well that not anything tobe imagined could stop my loving you. "

He went on, breathing heavily but calmed. "You think that even if I am ablamed fool, if I went anyhow--that I'd rank as a decent white man? Inyour eyes--Dad's--my own?"

"I know it, Hughie. It's what you do, not how you feel doing it. "

"If Brock would hold my hand!" The eyes of the two met with a dim smileand a memory of the childhood so near, so utterly gone. "I'd like Dad torespect me again, " the boy spoke in a wistful, uncertain voice. "It'sdarned wretched to have your father despise you. " He looked at herthen. "Mummy, you're tired out; your face is gray. I'm a beast to keepyou up. Go to bed, dear. "

He kissed her, and with his arm around her waist led her through thedark hall to the door of her room, and kissed her again. And again, asshe stood and watched there, he turned on the threshold of the den andthrew one more kiss across the darkness, and his face shone with a smilethat sent her to bed, smiling through her tears. She lay in thedarkness, fragrant of honeysuckle outside, and her sore heart was fullof the boys--of Hugh struggling in his crisis; still more, perhaps, ofBrock whose birthday it was, Brock in France, in the midst of "many andgreat dangers, " yet--she knew--serene and buoyant among them because hismind was "stayed. " Not long these thoughts held her; for she was sodeadened with the stress of many emotions that nature asserted itselfand shortly she feel asleep. 

It may have been two or three hours she slept. She knew afterward thatit must have been at about three of the summer morning when a dreamcame which, detailed and vivid as it was, probably filled in time onlythe last minute or so before awakening. It seemed to her that glorysuddenly flooded the troubled world; the infinite, intimate joy, impossible to put into words, was yet a defined and long first chapterof her dream. After that she stood on the bank of a river, a riverperhaps miles wide, and with the new light-heartedness filling her shelooked and saw a mighty bridge which ran brilliant with many-coloredlights, from her to the misty further shore of the river. Over thebridge passed a throng of radiant young men, boys, all in uniform. "Howglorious!" she seemed to cry out in delight, and with that she sawBrock. 

Very far off, among the crowd of others, she saw him, threading his waythrough the throng. He came, unhurried yet swift, and on his face was anamused, loving smile which was perhaps the look of him which sheremembered best. By his side walked old Mavourneen, the wolf-hound, Brock's hand on the shaggy head. The two swung steadily toward her, Brock smiling into her eyes, holding her eyes with his, and as theywere closer, she heard Mavourneen crying in wordless dumb joy, crying asshe had not done since the day when Brock came home the last time. Abovethe sound Brock's voice spoke, every trick of inflection so familiar, sosweet, that the joy of it was sharp, like pain. 

"Mother, I'm coming to take Hughie's hand--to take Hughie's hand, " herepeated. 

And with that Mavourneen's great cry rose above his voice. And suddenlyshe was awake. Somewhere outside the house, yet near, the dog wasloudly, joyfully crying. Out of the deep stillness of the night burstthe sound of the joyful crying. 

The woman shot from her bed and ran barefooted, her heart beating madly, into the darkness of the hall to the landing on the stairway. Somethinghalted her. There was a broad, uncurtained pane of glass in the frontdoor of the house. From the landing one might look down the stone stepsoutside and see clearly in the bright moonlight as far as the beginningof the rose archway. As she stood gasping, from beneath the flowersBrock stepped into the moonlight and began, unhurried, buoyant, as shehad but now seen him in her dream, to mount the steps. Mavourneenpressed at his side, and his hand was on the dog's head. As he came, helifted his face to his mother with the accustomed, every-day smile whichshe knew, as if he were coming home, as he had come home on many amoonlit evening from a dance in town to talk the day over with her. Asshe stared, standing in the dark on the landing, her pulse racing, yetstill with the stillness of infinity, an arm came around her, a handgripped her shoulder, and young Hugh's voice spoke. 

"Mother! It's Brock!" he whispered. 

At the words she fled headlong down to the door and caught at thehandle. It was fastened, and for a moment she could not think of thebolt. Brock stood close outside; she saw the light on his brown head andthe bend in the long, strong fingers that caressed Mavourneen's fur. Hesmiled at her happily--Brock--three feet away. Just as the boltloosened, with an inexplicable, swift impulse she was cold with terror. For the half of a second, perhaps, she halted, possessed by someformless fear stronger than herself--humanity dreading something nothuman, something unknown, overwhelming. She halted not a wholesecond--for it was Brock. Brock! Wide open she flung the door and sprangout. 

There was no one there. Only Mavourneen stood in the cold moonlight, andcried, and looked up, puzzled, at empty air. 

"Oh, Brock, Brock! Oh, dear Brock!" the woman called and flung out herarms. "Brock--Brock--don't leave me. Don't go!"

Mavourneen sniffed about the dark hall, investigating to find the masterwho had come home and gone away so swiftly. With that young Hugh waslifting her in his arms, carrying her up the broad stairs into his room. "You're barefooted, " he spoke brokenly. 

She caught his hand as he wrapped her in a rug on the sofa. "Hugh--yousaw--it was Brock?"

"Yes, dearest, it was our Brock, " answered Hugh stumblingly. 

"You saw--and I--and Mavourneen. "

"Mavonrneen is Irish, " young Hugh said. "She has the second sight, " andthe big old dog laid her nose on the woman's knee and lifted topaz eyes, asking questions, and whimpered broken-heartedly. 

"Dear dog, " murmured the woman and drew the lovely head to her. "You sawhim. " And then; "Hughie--he came to tell us. He is--dead. "

"I think so, " whispered young Hugh with bent head. 

Then, fighting for breath, she told what had happened--the dream, theintense happiness of it, how Brock had come smiling. "And Hugh, the onlything he said, two or three times over, was, 'I'm coming to takeHughie's hand. '"

The lad turned upon her a shining look. "I know, mother. I didn't hear, of course, but I knew, when I saw him, it was for me, too. And I'mready. I see my way now. Mother, get Dad. "

Hugh, the elder, still sleeping in his room at the far side of thehouse, opened heavy eyes. Then he sprang up. "Evelyn! What is it?"

"Oh, Hugh--come! Oh, Hugh! Brock--Brock--" She could not say the words;there was no need. Brock's father caught her hands. In bare words thenshe told him. 

"My dear, " urged the man, "you've had a vivid dream. That's all. Youwere thinking about the boys; you were only half awake; Mavourneen beganto cry--the dog means Brock. It was easy--" his voice faltered--"to--tobelieve the rest. "

"Hugh, I _know_, dear. Brock came to tell me. He said he would. " Later, that day, when a telegram arrived from the War Office there was no newshock, no added certainty to her assurance. She went on: "Hughie sawhim. And Mavourneen. But I can't argue. We still have a boy, Hugh, andhe needs us--he's waiting. Oh, my dear, Hughie is going to France!"

"Thank God!" spoke Hugh's father. 

Hand tight in hand like young lovers the two came across to the roomwhere their boy waited, tense. "Father--Dad--you'll give me back yourrespect, won't you?" The strong young hand held out was shaking. "Because I'm going, Dad. But you have to know that I was--a coward. "

"_No_, Hugh. "

"Yes. And Dad, I'm afraid--now. But I've got the hang of things, andnothing could keep me. Will you, do you despise me--now--that I stillhate it--if--if I go just the same?"

The big young chap shook so that his mother, his tall mother, put herarms about him to steady him. He clutched her hand hard and repeated, through quivering lips, "Would you despise me still, Dad?"

For a moment the father could not answer. Then difficult tears ofmanhood and maturity forced their way from his eyes and unheeded rolleddown his cheeks. With a step he put his arms about the boy as if the boywere a child, and the boy threw his about his father's shoulders. 

For a long second the two tall men stood so. The woman, standing apart, through the shipwreck of her earthly life was aware only of happinesssafe where sorrow and loss could not touch it. What was separation, death itself, when love stronger than death held people together as itheld Hugh and her boys and herself? Then the older Hugh stood away, still clutching the lad's hand, smiling through unashamed tears. 

"Hugh, " he said, "in all America there's not a man prouder of his sonthan I am of you. There's not a braver soldier in our armies than thesoldier who's to take my name into France. " He stopped and steadiedhimself; he went on: "It would have broken my heart, boy, if you hadfailed--failed America. And your mother--and Brock and me. Failed yourown honor. It would have meant for us shame and would have bowed ourheads; it would have meant for you disaster. Don't fear for yourcourage, Hugh; the Lord won't forsake the man who carries the Lord'scolors. "

Young Hugh turned suddenly to his mother. "I'm at peace now. You andDad--honor me. I'll deserve respect from--my country. It will be a wallaround me--And--" he caught her to him and crushed his mouth tohers--"dearest--Brock will hold my hand. "

THE SILVER STIRRUP

In the most unexpected spots vital sparks of history blaze out. Timeseems, once in a while, powerless to kill a great memory. Romance bloomssometimes untarnished across centuries of commonplace. In a new worldold France lives. 

 * * * * *

It is computed that about one-seventh of the French-Canadian populationof Canada enlisted in the great war. The stampede of heroism seems tohave left them cold. A Gospel of the Province first congealed the nonetoo fiery blood of the _habitants_, small farmers, very poor, thinkingin terms of narrowest economy, of one pig and ten children, ofpainstaking thrift and a bare margin to subsistence. Such conditionsstifle world interests. The earthquake which threatened civilizationdisturbed the _habitant_ merely because it hazarded his critical balanceon the edge of want. The cataclysm over the ocean was none of hisaffair. And his affairs pressed. What about the pig if one went to war?And could Alphonse, who is fourteen, manage the farm so that there wouldbe vegetables for winter? Tell me that. 

When in September, 1914, I went to Canada for two weeks of camping I hadheard of this point of view. Dick Lindsley and I were met at the ClubStation on the casual railway which climbs the mountains through QuebecProvince, by four guides, men from twenty to thirty-five, powerfullybuilt chaps, deep-shouldered and slim-waisted, lithe as wild-cats. Itwas a treat to see their muscles, like machines in the pink of order, adjust to the heavy _pacquetons_, send a canoe whipping through thewater. There was one exception to the general physical perfection; oneof Dick's men, a youngster of perhaps twenty-two, limped. He coveredground as well as the others, for all of that; he picked the heaviestload and portaged it at an uneven trot, faster than his comrades; he waswhat the _habitants_ call "ambitionné. " Dick's canoe was loaded first, owing to the fellow's efficiency, and I waited while it got away andwatched the lame boy. He had an interesting face, aquiline and dark, setwith vivid light-blue eyes, shooting restless fire. I registered anintention to get at this lad's personality. The chance came two dayslater. My men were off chopping on a day, and I suddenly needed to gofishing. 

"Take Philippe, " offered Dick. "He handles a boat better than any ofthem. "

Philippe and I shortly slipped into the Guardian's Pool, at the lowerend of the long lake of the Passes. "It is here, M'sieur, " Philippeannounced, "that it is the custom to take large ones. "

By which statement the responsibility of landing record trout was on myshoulders. I thought I would have a return whack. My hands in the snarlyflies and my back to Philippe I spoke around my pipe, yet spokedistinctly. 

"Why aren't you in France fighting?"

The canoe shivered down its length as if the man at its stern hadjumped. There was a silence. Then Philippe's deep, boyish voiceanswered. 

"As M'sieur sees, one is lame. "

I felt a hotness emerging from my flannel collar and rushing up my faceas I bent over that damned Silver Doctor that wouldn't loose its grip onthe Black Hackle. I didn't see the Black Hackle or the Silver Doctor fora moment. "Beg pardon, " I growled. "I forgot. " I mumbled platitudes. 

"M'sieur le Docteur has right, " Philippe announced unruffled. "Oneshould fight for France. I have tried to enlist, there are three times, explaining that I am '_capable_' though I walk not evenly. But one willnot have me. Therefore I have shame, me. I have, naturally, more shamethan another because of Jeanne. "

"Because of Jeanne?" I repeated. "Who is Jeanne?"

There was a pause; a queer feeling made me slew around. Philippe's oldfelt hat was being pulled off as if he were entering a church. 

"But--Jeanne, M'sieur, " he stated as if I must understand. "Jeanned'Arc. _Tiens_--the Maid of France. "

"The Maid of France!" I was puzzled. "What has she to do with it?"

"But everything, M'sieur. " The vivid eyes flamed. "M'sieur does notknow, perhaps, that my grandfather fought under Jeanne?"

"Your grandfather!" I flung it at him in scorn. The man was a poorlunatic. 

"But yes, M'sieur. My grandfather, lui-même. "

"But, Philippe, the Maid of Orleans died in 1431. " I remembered thatdate. The Maid is one of my heroic figures. 

Philippe shrugged his shoulders. "Oh--as for a _grandpère_! But not the_grandpère à present_, he who keeps the grocery shop in St. Raymond. Certainly not that grandfather. It is to say the _grandpère_ of that_grandpère_. Perhaps another yet, or even two or three more. What doesit matter? One goes back a few times of grandfathers and behold onearrives at him who was armorer for the Maid--to whom she gave the silverstirrup. "

"The silver stirrup. " My Leonard rod bumped along the bow; my fliestangled again in the current. I squirmed about till I faced the guidein the stern. "Philippe, what in hell do you mean by this drool ofgrandfathers and silver stirrups?"

The boy, perfectly respectful, not forgetting for a second his affair ofkeeping the canoe away from the fish-hole, looked at me squarely, andhis uncommon light eyes gleamed out of his face like the eyes of aprophet. "M'sieur, it is a tale doubtless which seems strange to you, but to us others it is not strange. M'sieur lives in New York, and thereare automobiles and trolley-cars and large buildings _en masse_, and toM'sieur the world is made of such things. But there are other things. Wewho live in quiet places, know. One has not too much of excitement, weothers, so that one remembers a great event which has happened to one'sfamily many years. Yes, indeed, M'sieur, centuries. If one has not muchone guards as a souvenir the tale of the silver stirrup of Jeanne. Yes, for several generations. "

The boy was apparently unconscious that his remarks were peculiar. "Philippe, will you tell me what you mean by a silver stirrup whichJeanne d'Arc gave to your ancestors?"

"But with pleasure, M'sieur, " he answered readily, with the graciousFrench politeness which one meets among the _habitants_ side by sidewith sad lapses of etiquette. "It is all-simple that the oldgrandfather, the ancient, he who lived in France when the Maid foughther wars, was an armorer. '_Ça fait que_'--_sa fak_, Philippe pronouncedit--'so it happened that on a day the stirrup of the Maid broke as herhorse plunged, and my grandfather, the ancient, he ran quickly andcaught the horse's head. And so it happened--_çe fait que_--that mygrandfather was working at that moment on a fine stirrup of gold for herharness, for though they burned her afterwards, they gave her then allthat there was of magnificence. And the old follow--_le vieux_--whippedout the golden stirrup from his pocket, quite prepared for use, so ithappened--and he put it quickly in the place of the silver one which shehad been using. And Jeanne smiled. 'You are ready to serve France, Armorer. '

"She bent then and looked _le vieux_ in the face--but he was young atthe time. 

"'Are you not Baptiste's son, of Doremy?' asked the Maid. 

"'Yes, Jeanne, ' said my _grandpère_. 

"'Then keep the silver stirrup to remember our village, and God'sservant Jeanne, ' she said, and gave it to him with her hand. "

If a square of Gobelin tapestry had emerged from the woods and hungitself across the gunwale of my canvas canoe it would not have been moresurprising. I got my breath. "And the stirrup, what became of it?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "_Sais pas_, " he answered with Frenchnonchalance. "One does not know that. It is a long time, M'sieur leDocteur. It was lost, that stirrup, some years ago. It may be a hundredyears. It may be two hundred. My grandfather, he who keeps the groceryshop, has told me that there is a saying that a Martel must go to Franceto find the silver stirrup. In every case I do not know. It is my wishto fight for France, but as for the stirrup or Jeanne--_sais pas_. "Another shrug. With that he was making oration, his light eyes flashing, his dark face working with feeling, about the bitterness of being acripple, and unable to go into the army. 

"It is not _comme il faut_, M'sieur le Docteur, that a man whose verygrandfather fought for Jeanne should fail France now in her need. Jeanne, one knows, was the saviour of France. Is it not?" I agreed. "Itis my inheritance, therefore, to fight as my ancient grandfatherfought. " I looked at the lame boy, not knowing the repartee. He beganagain. "Also I am the only one of the family proper to go, exceptAdolphe, who is not very proper, having had a tree to fall on the lungsand leave him liable to fits; and also Jacques and Louis are too young, and Jean Baptiste he is blind of one eye, God knows. So it is I whofail! I fail! Jesus Christ! To stay at home like a coward when Franceneeds men!"

"But you are Canadian, Philippe. Your people have been here two hundredyears. "

"M'sieur, I am of France. I belong there with the fighting men. " Hislook was a flame, and suddenly I know why he was firing off hot shot atme. I am a surgeon. 

"What's the matter with your leg?" I asked. 

The brilliant eyes flashed. "Ah!" he brought out, "One hoped--If M'sieurle Docteur would but see. I may be cured. To be straight--to march!" Hewas trembling. 

Later, in the shifting sunshine at the camp door, with the odors ofhemlocks and balsams about us, the lake rippling below, I had anexamination. I found that the lad's lameness was a trouble to be curedeasily by an operation. I hesitated. Was it my affair to root thisyoungster out of safety and send him to death in the _débâcle_ overthere? Yet what right had I to set limits? He wanted to offer his life;how could I know what I might be blocking if I withheld the cure? My jobwas to give strength to all I could reach. 

"Philippe, " I said, "if you'll come to New York next month I'll set youup with a good leg. "

In September, 1915, Dick and I came up for our yearly trip, but Philippewas not with us. Philippe, after drilling at Valcartier, was drillingin England. I had lurid post cards off and on; after a while I knew thathe was "somewhere in France. " A grim gray card came with no post-mark, no writing but the address and Philippe's labored signature; for therest there were printed sentences: "I am well. I am wounded. I am inhospital. I have had no letter from you lately. " All of which was struckout but the welcome words, "I am well. " So far then I had not cured thelad to be killed. Then for weeks nothing. It came to be time again to goto Canada for the hunting. I wrote the steward to get us four men, asusual, and Lindsley and I alighted from the rattling train at the clubstation in September, 1916, with a mild curiosity to see what Fate hadprovided as guides, philosophers and friends to us for two weeks. PaulSioui--that was nice--a good fellow Paul; and Josef--I shook hands withJosef; the next face was a new one--ah, Pierre Beauramé--one calls one'sself that--_on s'appelle comme ça. Bon jour!_ I turned, and got a shock. The fourth face, at which I looked, was the face of Philippe Martel. Ilooked, speechless. And with that the boy laughed. "It is that M'sieurcannot again cure my leg, " answered Philippe, and tapped proudly on acalf which echoed with a wooden sound. 

"You young cuss, " I addressed him savagely. "Do you mean to say you havegone and got shot in that very leg I fixed up for you?"

Philippe rippled more laughter--of pure joy--of satisfaction. "But, yes, M'sieur le Docteur, that leg _même_. Itself. In a battle, M'sieur leDocteur gave me the good leg for a long enough time to serve France. Itwas all that there was of necessary. As for now I may not fight again, but I can walk and portage _comme il faut_. I am _capable_ as a guide. Is it not, Josef?" He appealed, and the men crowded around to back himup with deep, serious voices. 

"Ah, yes, M'sieur. "

"_B'en capable!_"

"He can walk like us others--the same!" they assured me impressively. 

Philippe was my guide this year. It was the morning after we reachedcamp. "Would M'sieur le Docteur be too busy to look at something?"

I was not. Philippe stood in the camp doorway in the patch of sunlightwhere he had sat two years before when I looked over his leg. He satdown again, in the shifting sunshine, the wooden leg sticking outstraight and pathetic, and began to take the covers off a package. Therewere many covers; the package was apparently valuable. As he worked atit the odors of hemlock and balsam, distilled by hot sunlight, rosesweet and strong, and the lake splashed on pebbles, and peace thatpasses understanding was about us. 

"It was in a bad battle in Lorraine, " spoke Philippe into the sunshinypeace, "that I lost M'sieur le Docteur's leg. One was in the fronttrench and there was word passed to have the wire cutters ready, andalso bayonets, for we were to charge across the open towards thetrenches of the Germans--perhaps one hundred and fifty yards, eight_arpents_--acres--as we say in Canada. Our big guns back did thepreparation, making what M'sieur le Docteur well knows is called a_rideau_--a fire curtain. We climbed out of our trench with a shout andfollowed the fire curtain; so closely we followed that it seemed weshould be killed by our own guns. And then it stopped--too soon, M'sieurle Docteur. Very many Boches were left alive in that trench in front, and they fired as we came, so that some of us were hit, and so terriblewas the fire that the rest were forced back to our own trench which wehad left. It is so sometimes in a fight, M'sieur le Docteur. The bigguns make a little mistake, and many men have to die. Yet it is forFrance. And as I ran with the others for the shelter of the trench, andas the Boches streamed out of their trench to make a counter attack withhand-grenades I tripped on something. It was little Réné Dumont, whomM'sieur le Docteur remembers. He guided for our camp when Josef was illin the hand two years ago. In any case he lay there, and I could not lethim lie to be shot to pieces. So I caught up the child and ran with himacross my shoulders and threw him in the trench, and as he went in therewas a cry behind me, 'Philippe!'

"I turned, and one waved arms at me--a comrade whom I did not know verywell--but he lay in the open and cried for help. So I thought of Jeanned'Arc, and how she had no fear, and was kind, and with that, back Itrotted to get the comrade. But at that second--pouf!--a big noise, andI fell down and could not get up. It was the good new leg of M'sieur leDocteur which those _sacrés_ Boches had blown off with a hand-grenade. So that I lay dead enough. And when I came alive it was dark, and alsothe leg hurt--but yes! I was annoyed to have ruined that leg which yougave me--M'sieur le Docteur. "

I grinned, and something ached inside of me. 

Philippe went on. "It was then, when I was without much hope and weakand in pain and also thirsty, that a thing happened. It is a businesswithout pleasure, M'sieur le Docteur, that--to lie on a battle-fieldwith a leg shot off, and around one men dead, piled up--yes, and somenot dead yet, which is worse. They groan. One feels unable to bear it. It grows cold also, and the searchlights of the Boches play so as toprevent rescue by comrades. They seem quite horrible, those lights. Onelives, but one wishes much to die. So it happened that, as I lay there, I heard a step coming, not crawling along as the rescuers crawl andstopping when the lights flare, but a steady step coming freely. Andwith that I was lifted and carried quickly into a wood. There was a holein the ground there, torn by a shell deeply, and the friend laid methere and put a flask to my lips, and I was warm and comforted. I lookedup and I saw a figure in soldier's clothing of an old time, such as onesees in books--armor of white. And the face smiled down at me. 'You willbe saved, ' a voice said; and the words sounded homely, almost like thewords of my grandfather who keeps the grocery shop. 'You will be saved. 'It seemed to me that the voice was young and gentle and like a woman's. 

"'Who are you?' I asked, and I had a strange feeling, afraid a littleM'sieur, yet glad to a marvel. I got no answer to my question, but Ifelt something pressed into my hand, and then I spoke, but I suppose Iwas a little delirious, M'sieur, for I heard myself say a thing I hadnot been thinking. 'A Martel must return to France to find the silverstirrup'--I said that, M'sieur. Why I do not know. They were the words Ihad heard my grandfather speak. Perhaps the hard feeling in my hand--butI cannot explain, M'sieur le Docteur. In any case, there was all at oncea great thrill through my body, such as I have never known. I sat upquickly and stared at the figure. It stood there. M'sieur will probablynot believe me--the figure stood there in white armor, with a sword--andI knew it for Jeanne--the Maid. With that I knew no more. When I woke itwas day. I was still lying in the crater of the shell which had torn upthe earth of a very old battle-field, but in my hand I heldtight--this. "

Philippe drew off the last cover with a dramatic flourish and opened thebox which had been wrapped so carefully. I bent over him. In the box, before my eyes, lay an ancient worn and battered silver stirrup. Therewere no words to say. I stared at the boy. And with that suddenly he hadslewed around clumsily--because of his poor wooden leg--and was on hisknees at my feet. He held out the stirrup. 

"M'sieur le Docteur, you gave me a man's chance and honor, and the joyof fighting for France. I can never tell my thanks. I have nothing togive you--but this. Take it, M'sieur le Docteur. It is not much, yet tome the earth holds nothing so valuable. It is the silver stirrup ofJeanne d'Arc. It is yours. "

 * * * * *

In a glass case on the wall of my library hangs an antique bit ofharness which is my most precious piece of property. How its story cameabout I do not even try to guess. As Philippe said the action of thatday took place on a very old battle-field. The shell which made thesheltering crater doubtless dug up earth untouched for hundreds ofyears. That it should have dug up the very object which was a traditionin the Martel family and should have laid it in the grasp of a Martelfighting for France with that tradition at the bottom of his mind seemsincredible. The story of the apparition of the Maid is incredible tolaughter, or tears. No farther light is to be got from the boy, becausehe believes his story. I do not try to explain, I place the episode inmy mind alongside other things incredible, things lovely and spiritual, and, to our viewpoint of five years ago, things mad. Many such haverisen luminous, undesirable, unexplained, out of these last horribleyears, and wait human thought, it may be human development, to beclassified. I accept and treasure the silver stirrup as a pledge ofbeautiful human gratitude. I hold it as a visible sign that French bloodkeeps a loyalty to France which ages and oceans may not weaken. 

THE RUSSIAN

The little dinner-party of grizzled men strayed from the dining-room andacross the hall into the vast library, arguing mightily. 

"The great war didn't do it. World democracy was on the way. The warheld it back. "

It was the United States Senator, garrulous and incisive, who issuedthat statement. The Judge, the host, wasted not a moment incontradicting. "You're mad, Joe, " he threw at him with a hand on theshoulder of the man who was still to him that promising youngster, little Joe Burden of The School. "Held back democracy! The war! Quitemad, my son. "

The guest of the evening, a Russian General who had just finished fivestrenuous years in the Cabinet of the Slav Republic, dropped back a stepto watch, with amused eyes, strolling through the doorway, the twosplendid old boys, the Judge's arm around the Senator's shoulders, fighting, sputtering, arguing with each other as they had fought andargued forty odd years up to date. 

Two minutes more and the party of six had settled into deep chairs, intoa mammoth davenport, before a blazing fire of spruce and birch. Cigars, liqueurs, coffee, the things men love after dinner, were there; one hadthe vaguest impression of two vanishing Japanese persons who might ormight not have brought trays and touched the fire and placed tiny tablesat each right hand; an atmosphere of completeness was present, one didnot notice how. One settled with a sigh of satisfaction into comfort, and chose a cigar. One laughed to hear the Judge pound away at theSenator. 

"It's all a game. " Dr. Rutherford turned to the Russian. "They'redevoted old friends, not violent enemies, General. The Senator stirs upthe Judge by taking impossible positions and defending them savagely. The Judge invariably falls into the trap. Then a battle. Their battlesare the joy of the Century Club. The Senator doesn't believe for aninstant that the war held back democracy. "

At that the Senator whirled. "I don't? But I do. --Don't _smoke_ thatcigar, Rutherford, on your life. Peter will have these atrocities. Here--Kaki, bring the doctor the other box. --That's better. --I don'tbelieve what I said? Now listen. How could the fact that the world wasturned into a military camp, officers commanding, privates obeying, rank, rank, rank everywhere throughout mankind, how could that fail tohinder democracy, which is in its essence the leveling of ranks? Tell methat!"

The doctor grinned at the Russian. "What about it, General? What do youthink?"

The General answered slowly, with a small accent but in the wonderfullygood English of an educated Russian. "I do not agree with theSena-torr, " he stated, and five heads turned to listen. There was aquality of large personality in the burr of the voice, in the poise andsoldierly bearing, in the very silence of the man, which made his slowwords of importance. "I believe indeed that the Sena-torr ispartly--shall I say speaking for argument?"

The Senator laughed. 

"The great war, in which all of us here had the honor to bear arms--thatdeath grapple of tyranny against freedom--it did not hold back the causeof humanity, of democracy, that war. Else thousands upon thousands ofgood lives were given in vain. "

There was a hushed moment. Each of the men, men now from fifty to sixtyyears old, had been a young soldier in that Homeric struggle. Each wascaught back at the words of the Russian to a vision of terrible places, of thundering of great guns, of young, generous blood flowing likewater. The deep, assured tones of the Russian spoke into the solemnpause. 

"There is an episode of the war which I remember. It goes to show, sofar as one incident may, where every hour was crowded with drama, howforces worked together for democracy. It is the story of a common man ofmy country who was a private in the army of your country, and who waslifted by an American gentleman to hope and opportunity, and, as Godwilled it, to honor. My old friend the Judge can tell that episodebetter than I. My active part in it was small. If you like"--the darkforeign eyes flashed about the group--"if you like I should much enjoyhearing my old friend review that little story of democracy. "

There was a murmur of approval. One man spoke, a fighting parson he hadbeen. "It argues democracy in itself, General, that a Russianaristocrat, the brother of a Duke, should remember so well theadventures of a common soldier. "

The smouldering eyes of the Slav turned to the speaker and regarded himgravely. "I remember those adventures well, " he answered. 

The Judge, flung back in a corner of the davenport, his knees crossedand rings from his cigar ascending, stared at the ceiling, "Come along, Peter. You're due to entertain us, " the Senator adjured him, and theJudge, staring upwards, began. 

"This is the year 1947. It was in 1917 that the United States went intowar--thirty years ago. The fifth of June, 1917, was set, as youremember, for the registration of all men in the country overtwenty-one and under thirty-one for the draft. I was twenty-three, living in this house with my father and mother, both dead before the warended. Being outside of the city, the polling place where I was due toregister was three miles off, at Hiawatha. I registered in the morning;the polls were open from seven A. M. To nine P. M. My mother drove meover, and the road was being mended, and, as happened in those days inthe country, half a mile of it was almost impassable. There were noadjustable lift-roads invented then. We got through the ruts andstonework, but it was hard going, and we came home by a detour throughthe city rather than pass again that beastly half mile. That night wasdark and stormy, with rain at intervals, and as we sat in this room, reading, the three of us--" The Judge paused and gazed a moment at thefaces in the lamplight, at the chairs where his guests sat. It was as ifhe called back to their old environment for a moment the two familiarfigures which had belonged here, which had gone out of his life. "We satin this room, the three of us, " he repeated, "and the butler came in. 

"'If you please, sir, there's a young man here who wants to register, 'he said. 

"'Wants to register!' my father threw at him. 'What do you mean?'

"We all went outside, and there we found not one, but five boys, Russians. There was a munitions plant a mile back of us and the ladsworked there, and had wakened to the necessity of registering at thelast moment, being new in the country and with little English. They haddirections to go to the same polling place as mint, Hiawatha, but hadgotten lost, and, seeing our lights, brought up here. Hiawatha, as Isaid, is three miles away. It was eight-thirty and the polls closed atnine. We brought the youngsters inside, and I dashed to the garage forthe car and piled the delighted lads into it and drove them across. 

"At least I tried to. But when we came to the bad half mile the carrebelled at going the bit twice in a day, and the motor stalled. Therewe were--eight-forty-five P. M. --polls due to close at nine--a year'simprisonment for five well-meaning boys for neglecting to register. Iwas in despair. Then suddenly one of the boys saw a small red lightahead, the tail light of an automobile. We ran along and found a big carstanding in front of a house. As we got there, out from the car steppeda woman with a lantern, and as the light swung upward I saw that she wastall and fair and young and very lovely. She stopped as the six of usloomed out of the darkness. I knew that a professor from the Universityin town had taken this house for the summer, but I don't know the peopleor their name. It was no time to be shy. I gave my name and stated thecase. 

"The girl looked at me. 'I've seen you, ' she said. 'I know you are Mr. McLane. I'll drive you across. One moment, till I tell my mother. '

"She was in the house and out again without wasting a second, and as sheflashed into the car I heard a gasp, and I turned and saw in the glareof the headlights as they sprang on one of my Russians, a giganticyoungster of six feet four or so, standing with his cap off and his headbent, as he might have stood before a shrine, staring at the spot wherethe girl had disappeared into the car. Then the engine purred and mysquad tumbled in. 

"We made the polls on the tap of nine. Afterwards we drove back to mycar and among us, with the lantern, we got the motor running again, thegirl helping efficiently. The big fellow, when we told her good-night, astonished me by dropping on his knees and kissing the edge of herskirt. But I put it down to Slavic temperament and took it casually. I've learned since what Russian depth of feeling means--and tenacity ofpurpose. There was one more incident. When I finally drove the lads upto their village the big chap, who spoke rather good English when hespoke at all, which was seldom, invited me to have some beer. I wastired and wanted to get home, so I didn't. Then the young giantexcavated in his pocket and brought out a dollar bill. 

"'You get beer tomorrow. ' And when I laughed and shoved it back heflushed. 'Excuse--Mr. Sir, ' he said. 'I make mistake. ' Suddenly he drewhimself up--about to the treetops, it looked, for he was a huge, amagnificent lad. He tossed out his arm to me. 'Some day, ' he stateddramatically, 'I do two things. Some day I give Mr. Sir somethings morethan dollar--and he will take. And--some day I marry--Miss Angel!'

"You may believe I was staggered. But I simply stuck out my fist andshook his and said: 'Good. No reason on earth why a fellow with theright stuff shouldn't get anywhere. It's a free country. ' And the giantdrew his black brows together and remarked slowly: 'Allcountries--world--is to be free. War will sweep up kings--andother--rubbish. I--shall be--a man. '

"Besides his impressive build, the boy had--had--" the Judge glanced atthe Russian General, whose eyes glowed at the fire. "The boy had aremarkable face. It was cut like a granite hill, in sweeping masses. Allstrength. His eyes were coals. I went home thoughtful, and the Russianboy's intense face was in my mind for days, and I told myself many timesthat he not only would be, but already was, a man. 

"Events quickstepped after that. I got to France within the year, and, as you remember, work was ready. It was perhaps eighteen months afterthat registration day, June fifth, which we keep so rightly now as oneof our sacred days, that one morning I was in a fight. Our artillery haddemoralized the enemy at a point and sent them running. There was onemachine gun left working in the Hun trenches--doing a lot of damage. Suddenly it jammed. I was commanding my company, and I saw the chance, but also I saw a horrid mess of barbed wire. So I just ran forward a bitand up to the wire and started clipping, while that machine gun stayedjammed. Out of the corner of an eye I could see men rushing towards itin the German trench, and I knew I had only a moment before they got itfiring again. Then, as I leaped far forward to reach a bit ofentanglement, my foot slipped in a puddle and as I sprawled I saw ouruniform and a dead American boy's face under me, and I fell headlong inhis blood over him and into a bunch of wire. And couldn't get up. Thewire held like the devil. I got more tied up at every pull. And myclippers had fallen from my hand and landed out of reach. 

"'It's good night for me, ' I thought, and was aware of a sharp regret. To be killed because of a nasty bit of wire! I had wanted to do a lot ofthings yet. With that something leaped, and I saw clippers flashingclose by. A big man was cutting me loose, dragging me out, setting me onmy feet. Then the roar of an exploding shell; the man fell--fell intothe wire from which he had just saved me. There was no time to considerthat; somehow I was back and leading my men--and then we had thetrenches. 

"The rest of that day was confusion, but we won a mile of earthworks, and at night I remembered the incident of the wire and the man whorescued me. By a miracle I found him in the field hospital. His head wasbandaged, for the bit of shell had scraped his cheek and jaw, but hiseyes were safe, and something in the glance out of them was familiar. Yet I didn't know him till he drew me over and whispered painfully, forit hurt him to talk:

"'Yester--day I did--give Mr. Sir somethings more than dollar. And hedid--take it. '

"Then I know the big young Russian of registration day who had tried totip me. Bless him! I got him transferred to my command and--" the Judgehesitated a bit and glanced at his distinguished guest. One surmisedembarrassment in telling the story of the General's humble compatriot. 

The General rose to his feet and stood before the fire facing thehandful of men. "I can continue this anecdote from the point that ismore easily than my friend the Judge, " spoke the General. "I was in theconfidence of that countryman of mine. I know. It was so that after hehad been thus slightly useful to my friend the Judge, who was theCaptain McLane at that time--"

The Judge broke in with a shout of deep laughter worthy of a boy ofeighteen. "He 'slightly obliged me by saving my life. " The American, threw that into the Russian's smooth sentences. "I put that fact beforethe jury. "

The four men listening laughed also, but the Russian held up a hand andwent on gravely: "It was quite simple, that episode, and the man'spleasure. I knew him well. But what followed was not ordinary. TheCaptain McLane saw to it that the soldier had his chance. He became anofficer. He went alive through the war, and at the end the CaptainMcLane made it possible that he should be educated. His career was agift from the Captain McLane--from my friend the Judge to that man, whois now--" the finished sentence halted a mere second--"who is now aresponsible person of Russia. 

"And it is the incident of that sort, it is that incident itself which Iknow, which leads me to combat--" he turned with a deep bow--"theposition of the Sena-torr that the great war did not make for democracy. Gentlemen, my compatriot was a peasant, a person of ignorance, yet witha desire of fulfilling his possibilities. He had been born in socialchains and tied to most sordid life, beyond hope, in old Russia. To tryto shake free he had gone to America. But it was that caldron of fire, the war, which freed him, which fused his life and the life of theCaptain McLane, so different in opportunity, and burned from them alltrivialities and put them, stark-naked of advantages and of drawbacksartificial, side by side, as two lives merely. It made them--brothers. One gave and the other took as brothers without thought of false pride. They came from the furnace men. Both. Which is democracy--a chance for atree to grow, for a flame to burn, for a river to flow; a chance for aman to become a man and not rest a vegetable anchored to the earthas--Oh, God!--for many centuries the Russian mujiks have rested. It isthat which I understand by democracy. Freedom of development foreverything which wants to develop. It was the earthquake of war whichbroke chains, loosened dams, cleared the land for young forests. It waswar which made Russia a republic, which threw down the kingships, whichjoined common men and princes as comrades. God bless that liberatingwar! God grant that never in all centuries may this poor planet haveanother! God save democracy--humanity! Does the Sena-torr yet believethat the great war retarded democracy?" The Russian's brilliant, smouldering eyes swept about, inquiring. 

There was a hush in the peaceful, firelit, lamp-lit room. And with that, as of one impulse, led by the Senator, the five men broke intohandclapping. Tears stood in eyes, faces were twisted with emotion; eachof these men had seen what the thing was--war; each knew what a pricehumanity had paid for freedom. Out of the stirring of emotion, out ofthe visions of trenches and charges and blood and agony and heroism andunselfishness and steadfastness, the fighting parson, he who had bent, under fire, many a day over dying men who waited his voice to help themacross the border--the parson led the little company from the intensemoment to commonplace. 

"You haven't quite finished the story, General. The boy promised to dotwo things. He did the first; he gave the Judge 'something more than adollar, ' and the Judge took it--his life. But he said also he was goingto marry--what did he call her?--Miss Angel. How about that?"

The Russian General, standing on the hearthrug, appeared to draw himselfup suddenly with an access of dignity, and the Judge's boyish big laughbroke into the silence, "Tell them, Michael, " said the Judge. "You'vegone so far with the fairy story that they have a right to know thecrowning glory of it. Tell them. "

And suddenly the men sitting about noticed with one accord what, listening to the General's voice, they had not thought about--that theRussian was uncommonly tall--six feet four perhaps; that his face wascarved in sweeping lines like a granite hillside, and that an old, longscar stretched from the vivid eyes to the mouth. The men stared, startled with a sudden simultaneous thought. The Judge, watching, smiled. Slowly the General put his hand into the breast pocket of hisevening coat; slowly he drew out a case of dark leather, tooledwonderfully, set with stones. He opened the case and looked down; thestrong face changed as if a breeze and sunshine passed over a mountain. He glanced up at the men waiting. 

"I am no Duke's brother, " he said, smiling, suddenly radiant. "That is amistake of the likeness of a name, which all the world makes. I am borna mujik of Russia. But you, sir, " and he turned to the parson, "you wishan answer of 'Miss Angel, ' as the big peasant boy called that lovelyspirit, so far above him in that night, so far above him still, and yet, God be thanked, so close today! Yes? Then this is my answer. " He heldout the miniature set with jewels. 

ROBINA'S DOLL

Massive, sprawling, uncertain writing, two sentences to the page; aviolent slant in the second line, down right, balanced by a drasticlessening of the letters, up right, in the line underneath; spelling notas advised in the Century Dictionary--a letter from Robina, aged eight. Robina's Aunt Evelyn, sitting in her dress and cap of a Red Cross nursein the big base hospital in Paris, read the wandering, painstaking, veryunsuccessful literary effort, laughing, half-crying, and kissed itenthusiastically. 

"The darling baby! She shall have her doll if it takes--" Aunt Evelynstopped thoughtfully. 

It would take something serious to buy and equip the doll that Robina, with eight-year-old definiteness, had specified. The girl in the RedCross dress read the letter over. 

"Dear Aunt Evelyn, " began Robina and struck no snags so far. "I likedyour postcard so much. " (The facilis descensus to an averni ofliterature began with a swoop down here. ) "Mother is wel. Fother is wel. The baby is wel. The dog has sevven kitens. " (Robina robbed Peter to payPaul habitually in her spelling. ) "Fother sais they lukk like chokliteclares. I miss you, dere Aunt Evelyn, because I lov you sew. I hopeSanta Claus wil bring me a doll. I want a very bigg bride doll with avale and flours an a trunk of close, and all her under-close to butonand unboton and to have pink ribons run into. I don't want anythig sodeon. Come home, Aunt Evelyn, becaus I miss you. But if the poor wundeadsoljers ned you then don't come. But as soone as you can come to yureloving own girl--ROBINA. "

The dear angel! Every affectionate, labored word was from the warmlittle heart; Evelyn Bruce knew that. She sat, smiling, holding thepaper against her, seeing a vision of the faraway, beloved child whowrote it. She saw the dancing, happy brown eyes and the shining, croppedhead of pale golden brown, and the straight, strong little figure; sheheard the merry, ready giggle and the soft, slow tones that were alwaysfull of love to her. Robina, her sister's child, her own god-daughterhad been her close friend from babyhood, and between them there was abond of understanding which made nothing of the difference in years. Darling little Robina! Such a good, unspoiled little girl, for all ofthe luxury and devotion that surrounded her!

But--there was a difficulty just there. Robina was unspoiled indeed, yet, as the children of the very rich, she was, even at eight, sophisticated in a baby way. She had been given too many grand dolls notto know just the sort she wanted. She did not know that what she wantedcost money, but she knew the points desired--and they did cost money. Aunt Evelyn had not much money. 

"This one extravagant thing I will do, " said Evelyn Bruce, "and I'llgive up my trip to England next week, and I'll do it in style. Robinawon't want dolls much longer and this time she's got to have her heart'sdesire. "

Which was doubtless foolish, yet when one is separated by an ocean and awar from one's own, it is perhaps easier to be foolish for a child'sface and a child's voice, and love sent across the sea. So Evelyn Brucewrote a letter to her cousin in England saying that she could not cometo her till after Christmas. Then she went out into Paris and orderedthe doll, and reveled in the ordering, for a very gorgeous person indeedit was, and worthy to journey from Paris to a little American. It was tobe ready in just two weeks, and Miss Bruce was to come in and look overthe fine lady and her equipment as often as desired, before she startedon her ocean voyage. 

"It would simply break my heart if she were torpedoed. "

Evelyn confided that, childlike, to the black-browed, stout Frenchwomanwho took a personal interest in every "buton, " and then she opened herbag and brought out Robina's photograph, standing, in a ruffled bonnet, her solemn West Highland White terrier dog in her arms, on the gardenpath of "Graystones" between tall foxgloves. And the Frenchwoman tossedup enraptured hands at the beauty of the little girl who was to get thedoll, and did not miss the great, splendid house in the background, orthe fact that the dog was of a "_chic_" variety. 

The two weeks fled, every day full of the breathless life--and death--ofa hospital in war-torn France. Every day the girl saw sights and heardsounds which it seemed difficult to see and hear and go on living, butshe moved serene through such an environment, because she could help. Every day she gave all that was in her to the suffering boys who werecarried, in a never-ending stream of stretchers, into the hospital. Andthe strength she gave flowed back to her endlessly from, she could notbut believe it, the underlying source of all strength, which stretchesbeneath and about us all, and from which those who give greatly know howto draw. 

Two or three times, during the two weeks, Evelyn had gone in to inspectthe progress of Robina's doll, and spent a happy and light-heartedquarter of an hour with friendly Madame of the shop, deciding the colorof the lady's party coat, and of the ribbons in her minute underclothes, and packing and repacking the trunk with enchanting fairyfoolishnesses. Again and again she smiled to herself, in bed at night, going about her work in the long days, as she thought of the littlegirl's rapture over the many and carefully planned details. For, withall the presents showered on her, Robina's aunt knew that Robina hadnever had anything as perfect as this exquisite Paris doll and hertrousseau. 

The day came on which Evelyn was to make her final visit to "LaMarquise, " as Madame called the doll, and the nurse was needed in thehospital and could not go. But she telephoned Madame and made anappointment for tomorrow. 

"'La Marquise' finds herself quite ready for the voyage, " Madame spokeover the telephone. "She is all which there is of most lovely; Parisitself has never seen a so ravishing doll. I say it. We wait anxiouslyto greet Mademoiselle, I and La Marquise, " Madame assured her. Evelyn, laughing with sheer pleasure, made an engagement for the next day, without fail, and went back to her work. 

There was a badly wounded _poilu_ in her ward, whom the girl had come toknow well. He was young, perhaps twenty-seven, and his warm brown eyeswere full of a quality of gentleness which endeared him to everyone whocame near him. He was very grateful, very uncomplaining, asimple-minded, honest, common, young peasant, with a charm uncommon. Theunending bright courage with which he made light of cruel pain, wasalmost more than Evelyn, used as she was to brave men's pain, couldbear. He could not get well--the doctors said that--and it seemed thathe could not die. 

"If Corporal Duplessis might die, " Evelyn spoke to the surgeon. 

He answered, considering: "I don't see what keeps him alive. "

"I believe, " said Evelyn, "there's something on his mind. He sighsconstantly. Broken-heartedly. I believe he can't die until his mind isrelieved. "

"It may be that, " agreed Dr. Norton. "You could help him if you couldget him to tell you. " And moved on to the next shattered thing that hadbeen, so lately, a strong, buoyant boy. 

Evelyn went back to Duplessis and bent over him and spoke cheerfulwords; he smiled up at her with quick French responsiveness, and thensighed the heavy, anxious sigh which had come to be part of him. Withthat the girl took his one good hand and stroked it. "If you could tellthe American Sister what it is, " she spoke softly, "that troubles yourmind, perhaps I might help you. We Americans, you know, " and she smiledat him, "we are wonderful people. We can do all sorts of magic--and Iwant to help you to rest, so much. I'd do anything to help you. Won'tyou tell me what it is that bothers?" Evelyn Bruce's voice was winning, and Duplessis' eyes rested on her affectionately. 

"But how the Sister understands one!" he said. "It is true that there isa trouble. It hinders me to die"--and the heavy sigh swept out again. "It would be a luxury for me--dying. The pain is bad, at times. Yet theSister knows I am glad to have it, for France. Ah, yes! But--if I mightbe released. Yet the thought of what I said to her keeps me from dyingalways. "

"What you said 'to her, ' corporal?" repeated Evelyn. "Can't you tell mewhat it was? I would try so hard to help you. I might perhaps. "

"Who knows?" smiled the corporal, "It is true that Americans work magic. And the Sister is of a goodness! But yes. Yet the Sister may laugh atme, for it is a thing entirely childish, my trouble. "

"I will not laugh at you, Corporal, " said Evelyn, gravely, and feltsomething wring her heart. 

"If--then--if the Sister will not think it foolish--I will tell. " TheSister's answer was to stroke his fingers. "It is my child, my littlegirl, " Duplessis began in his deep, weak tones. "It was to her I madethe promise. "

"What promise?" prompted Evelyn softly, as he stopped. 

"One sees, " the deep voice began again, "that when I told them goodbye, the mother and Marie my wife, and the _petite_, who has five years, then I started away, and would not look back, because I could not wellbear it, Sister. And suddenly, as I strode to the street from ourcottage, down the brick walk, where there are roses and also otherflowers, on both sides--suddenly I heard a cry. And it was the voice oflittle Jeanne, the _petite_. I turned at that sound, for I could nothelp it, Sister, and between the flowers the little one came running, and as I bent she threw her arms about my neck and held me so tight, tight that I could not loosen the little hands, not without hurting her. 'I will not let you go--I will not let you go. ' She cried that again andagain. Till my heart was broken. But all the same, one had to go. Onewas due to join the comrades at the station, and the time was short. Sothat, immediately, I had a thought. 'My most dear, ' I spoke to her. 'Ifthou wilt let me go, then I promise to send thee a great, beautifuldoll, all in white, as a bride, like the cousin Annette at her weddinglast week. ' And then the clinging little hands loosened, and she said, wondering--for she is but a baby--'Wilt thou promise, my father?' And Isaid, 'Yes, ' and kissed her quickly, and went away. So that now that Iam wounded and am to die, that promise which I cannot keep to my_petite_, that promise hinders me to die. "

The deep, sad voice stopped and the honest eyes of the peasant boylooked up at Evelyn, burning with the pain of his body and of his soul. And as Evelyn looked back, holding his hand and stroking it, it was asif the furnace of the soldier's pain melted together all the things shehad ever cared to do. Yet it was a minute before she spoke. 

"Corporal, " she said, "your little girl shall have her doll, I will takeit to her and tell her that her father sent it. Will you lie very stillwhile I go and get the doll?"

The brown eyes looked up at her astounded, radiant, and the man caughtthe hem of her white veil and kissed it. "But the Americans--they domagic. You shall see, Sister, if I shall be still. I will not die beforethe Sister returns. It is a joy unheard of. "

The girl ran out of the hospital and away into Paris, and burst uponMadame. Somehow she told the story in a few words, and Madame was cryingas she laid "La Marquise" in a box. 

"It is Mademoiselle who is an angel of the good God, " she whispered, andkissed Evelyn unexpectedly on both cheeks. 

Corporal Duplessis lay, waxen, starry-eyed, as the American Sister cameback into the ward. His look was on her as she entered the far-awaydoor, and he saw the box in her arms. The girl knelt and drew out thegorgeous plaything and stood it by the side of the still, bandagedfigure. An expression as of amazed radiance came into the fast-dimmingeyes--into those large, brown, childlike eyes which had seen so littleof the gorgeousness of earth. His hand stirred a very little--enough, for Evelyn quickly moved the gleaming satin train of the doll under thegroping fingers. The eyes lifted to Evelyn's face and the smile in themwas that of a prisoner who suddenly sees the gate of his prison openedand the fields of home beyond. It mattered little, one may believe, tothe welcoming hosts of heaven that the angel at the gate of release forthe child-soul of Corporal Duplessis, the poilu, was only Robina's doll!

DUNDONALD'S DESTROYER

This is the year 1977. It will be objected that the episode I am goingto tell, having happened in 1917, having been witnessed by twenty-oddthousand people, must have been, if true, for sixty years commonproperty and an old tale. But when General Cochrane--who saved Englandat the end of the great war--told me the Kitchener incident of the storylast year, sitting in the rose-garden of the White Hart Inn atSonning-on-Thames, I had never heard of it. 

I wonder why he told me. Probably, as is the case in most things whichmost people do, from a mixture of impulses. For one thing I am anAmerican girl, with a fresher zest to hear tales of those titanic daysthan the people or the children of the people who lived through them. Also the great war of 1914 has stirred me since I was old enough to knowabout it, and I have read everything concerning it which I could layhands on, and talked to everyone who had knowledge of it. Also, GeneralCochrane and I made friends from the first minute. I was a quiteunimportant person of twenty-four years, he a magnificent hero ofeighty, one of the proud figures of England; it made me a bit dizzy whenI saw that he liked me. One feels, once in a long time, an unmistakabledouble pull, and knows that oneself and another are friends, and notage, color, race nor previous condition of servitude makes the slightestdifference. To have that happen with a celebrity, a celebrity whom itwould have been honor enough simply to meet, is quite dizzying. This wasthe way of it. 

I was staying with my cousin Mildred Ward, an Atlanta girl who marriedSir Cecil Ward, an English baronet of Oxfordshire. I reachedMartin-Goring on a day in July just in time to dress for dinner. When Icame down, a bit early, Milly looked me over and pronounced favorably. 

"You're not so hard to look at, " she pronounced. "It takes an Americanreally to wear French clothes. I'm glad you're looking well tonight, because one of your heroes--Oh!"

She had floated inconsequently against a bookcase in a voyage along thebig room, and a spray of wild roses from a vase on the shelf caught inher pretty gold hair. 

"Oh--why does Middleton stick those catchy things up there?" shecomplained, separating the flowers from her hair, and I followed hereyes above the shelf. 

"Why, that's a portrait of Kitchener--the old great Kitchener, isn'tit?" I asked. "Did he belong to Cecil's people?"

"No, " answered Milly, "only Cecil's grandfather and General Cochrane--orsomething--" her voice trailed. And then, "I've got somebody you'll becrazy about tonight, General Cochrane. "

"General Cochrane?"

"Oh! You pretend to know about the great war and don't know GeneralCochrane, who saved England when the fleet was wrecked. Don't know him!"

"Oh!" I said again. "Know him? Know him! I know every breath, he drew. Only I couldn't believe my ears. The boy Donald Cochrane? It isn't trueis it? How did you ever, ever--?"

"He lives five miles from us, " said Milly, unconcernedly. "We see a lotof him. His wife was Cecil's great-aunt. She's dead now. His daughter ismy best friend. 'The boy Donald Cochrane'!" She smiled a little. "He'sno boy now. He's old. Even heroes do that--get old. "

And with that the footman at the door announced "General Cochrane. "

I stared away up at a very tall, soldierly old man with a jagged scaracross his forehead. His wide-open, black-lashed gray eyes flashed aglance like a menace, like a sword, and then suddenly smiled as if thesun had jumped from a bank of storm-clouds. And I looked into thosewonderful eyes and we were friends. As fast as that. Most people wouldthink it nonsense, but it happened so. A few people will understand. Hetook me out to dinner, and it was as if no one else was at the table. Iwas aware only of the one heroic personality. At first I dared not speakof his history, and then, without planning or intention, my own voiceastonished my own ears. I announced to him:

"You have been my hero since I was ten years old. "

It was a marvelous thing he did, the lad of twenty, even consideringthat the secret was there at his hand, ready for him to use. Thehistories say that--that no matter if he did not invent the device, itwas his ready wit which remembered it, and his persistence which forcedthe war department to use it. Yes, and his heroism which led the shipand all but gave his life. And when he had fulfilled his mission hestepped back into the place of a subaltern; he was modest, evenembarrassed, at the great people who thronged to him. England was saved;that was all his affair; nothing, so the books say, could prod him intoprominence--though he rose to be a General later--after that, afterbeing the first man in England for those days. It was this personagewith whom I had gone out to dinner, and to whom I dared make that suddenspeech: "You have been my hero, General Cochrane, since I was ten yearsold. "

He slued about with the menacing, shrapnel look, and it seemed thatthere might be an explosion of sharp-pointed small bullets over thedinner-table. 

"Don't!" I begged. The sun came out; the artillery attack was over; helooked at me with boyish shyness. 

"D'you know, when people say things like that I feel as if I werestealing, " he told me confidentially. "Anybody else could have done allI did. In fact, it wasn't I at all, " he finished. 

"Not you? Who then? Weren't you the boy Donald Cochrane?"

"Yes, " he said, and stopped as if he were considering it. "Yes, " he saidquietly in the clean-cut, terse English manner of speaking, "I suppose Iwas the boy Donald Cochrane. " He gazed across the white lilacs and pinkroses on the table as if dreaming a bit. Then he turned with a longbreath. "My child, " he said, "there is something about you which givesme back my youth, and--the freshness of a great experience. I thankyou. "

I gazed into those compelling eyes, gasping like a fish with too muchoxygen, I felt myself, Virginia Fox, meshed in the fringes of historicdays, stirred by the rushing mighty wind of that Great Experience. I wasawestruck into silence. Just then Milly got up, and eight women flockedinto the library. 

I was good for nothing there, simply good for nothing at all. I tried totalk to the nice, sensible English women, and I could not. I knew Millywas displeased with me for not keeping up my end, but I was sodden withthrills. I had sat through a dinner next to General Cochrane, the DonaldCochrane who was the most dramatic figure of the world war of sixtyyears ago. It has always moved me to meet persons who even existed atthat time. I look at them and think what intense living it must havemeant to pick up a paper and read--as the news of the day, mindyou--that Germany had entered Belgium, that King Albert was fighting inthe trenches, that Von Kluck was within seventeen miles of Paris, thatVon Kluck was retreating--think of the rapture of that--Parissaved!--that the Germans had taken Antwerp; that the _Lusitania_ wassunk; that Kitchener was drowned at sea! I wonder if the people wholived and went about their business in America in those days realizedthat they were having a stage-box for the greatest drama of history? Iwonder. Terror and heroism and cruelty find self-sacrifice on a scalewhich had never been dreamed, which will never, God grant, need to bedreamed on this poor little racked planet again. Of course, there areplenty of those people alive yet, and I've talked to many and theyremember it, all of them remember well, even those who were quite small. And it has stirred me simply to look into the eyes of such an one andconsider that those eyes read such things as morning news. The great warhas had a hold on me since I first heard of it, and I distinctlyremember the day, from my father, at the age of seven. 

"Can you remember when it happened, father?" I asked him. And then: "Canyou remember when they drove old people out of their houses--and killedthem?"

"Yes, " said my father. And I burst into tears. And when I was not mucholder he told me about Donald Cochrane, the boy who saved England. 

It was not strange to my own mind that I could not talk commonplacesnow, when I had just spent an hour tailing to the man who had been thathistoric boy--the very Donald Cochrane. I could not talk commonplaces. 

Milly's leisurely voice broke my meditation. "I'm sorry that my cousin, Virginia Fox, should have such bad manners, Lady Andover, " she wasdrawling. "She was brought up to speak when spoken to, but I think it'sthe General who has hypnotized her. Virginia, did you know that LadyAndover asked you--" And I came to life. 

"It was Miss Fox who hypnotized the General, I fancy, " said Lady Andovermost graciously, considering I had overlooked her existence a secondbefore. "He had a word for no one else during dinner. " I felt myself goscarlet; it had pleased the Marvelous Person, then, to like me alittle, perhaps for the youth and enthusiasm in me. 

With that the men straggled into the room and the tall grizzled head ofmy hero, his lined face conspicuous for the jagged, glorious scar, towered over the rest. I saw the vivid eyes flash about, and they metmine; I was staring at him, as I must, and my heart all but jumped outof me when he came straight to where I stood, my back against thebookcase. 

"I was looking for you, " he said simply. 

Then he glanced over my head and his hand shot up in a manner of salute;I turned to see why. I was in front of the portrait of Lord Kitchener. 

"Did you know him, General Cochrane?" I asked. 

"Know him?" he demanded, and the gray glance plunged out at me fromunder the thick lashes. 

"Don't do it, " I pleaded, putting my hands over my eyes. "When you lookat me so it's--bombs and bullets. " The look softened, but the lean, wrinkled face did not smile. 

"You asked if I knew Kitchener, " he stated. 

I spoke haltingly. "I didn't know. Ought I to have known?"

General Cochrane gazed down, all at once dreamy, as if he looked throughme at something miles and æons away. 

"No, " he said. "There's no reason why you should. You have an uncommonknowledge of events of that time, an astonishing knowledge for a youngthing, so that I forget you can't know--all of it. " He stopped, as ifconsidering. "It is because I am old that I have fancies, " he went onslowly. "And you have understanding eyes. I have had a fancy thisevening that you and I were meant to be friends; that a similarity ofinterests, a--a likeness--oh, hang it all!" burst out the General like acollege boy. "I never could talk except straight and hot. I mean I've afeeling of a bond between us--you'll think me most presuming--"

I interrupted, breathless. "It's so, " I whispered. "I felt it, only I'dnot have dared--" and I choked. 

Old General Cochrane frowned thoughtfully. "Curious, " was what he said. "It's psychology of course, but I'm hanged if I know the explanation. However, since it's so, my child, I'm glad. A man as old as I makes fewnew friends. And a beautiful young woman--with a brain--and charm--andinnocent eyes--and French clothes!"

One may guess if I tried to stop this description. I could have listenedall night. With that:

"'Did I know Kitchener!' the child asked, " reflected the General, andthrew back his splendid head and laughed. I stared up, my heart pumping. Then, "Well, rather. Why, little Miss Fox--" and he stopped. "I've amind to tell the child a fairy-story, " he said. "A true fairy-storywhich is so extraordinary that few have been found to believe it, evenof those who saw it happen. "

He halted again. 

"Tell me!"

General Coehrane looked about the roomful of people and tossed out hishand. "In this mob?" he objected. "It's too long a story in any case. But why shouldn't you and I have a séance, to let a garrulous old fellowtalk about his youth?" he demanded in his lordly way. "Why not come outon the river in my boat? They'll let you play about with anoctogenarian, won't they?"

"I'll come, " I answered the General eagerly. 

"Very good. Tomorrow. Oh, by George, no. That confounded Prime Ministercomes down to me tomorrow. I detest old men, " said General Cochrane. "Well, then, the day after?"

The Thames was a picture-book river that day, gay with row-boats andpunts and launches, yet serene for all its gaiety; slipping betweengrassy banks under immemorial trees with the air of a private streamwandering, protected, through an estate. The English have the gift aboveother nations of producing an atmosphere of leisure and seclusion, andsurely there is no little river on earth so used and so unabused as theThames. Of all the craft abroad that bright afternoon, GeneralCochrane's white launch with its gold line above the water and itsgleaming brass trimmings was far and away the prettiest, and I wasbursting with pride as we passed the rank and file on the stream andthey looked at us admiringly. To be alive on such a day in England wassomething; to be afloat on the silvery Thames was enchantment; to be inthat lovely boat with General Cochrane, the boy Donald Cochrane, was arapture not to be believed without one's head reeling. Yet here it washappening, the thing I should look back upon fifty, sixty years fromnow, an old gray woman, and tell my grandchildren as the mostinteresting event of my life. It was happening, and I was enjoying everysecond, and not in the least awed into misery, as is often the case withgreat moments. For the old officer was as perfect a playmate as anygood-for-nothing young subaltern in England, and that is putting itstrongly. 

"Wouldn't it be nicer to land at Sonning and have our tea there?" hesuggested. We were dropping through the lock just higher than thevillage; the wet, mossy walls were rising above us on both sides and thetops of the lock-keeper's gorgeous pink snapdragons were rapidly goingout of sight. My host went on: "There's rather a nice rose-garden, andit's on the river, and the plum-cake's good. What do you think, that oron board?"

"The rose-garden, " I decided. 

Sonning is a village cut out of a book and pasted on the earth. It can'tbe true, it's so pretty. And the little White Hart Inn is adorable. 

"Is it really three hundred years old?" I asked. "The standard roseslook like an illustration out of 'Alice in Wonderland. ' Yes, please--teain the White Hart garden. "

The old General heaved a sigh. "Thank Heaven, " he said. "I was mostawfully anxious for fear you'd say on the boat, and I didn't order any. "

We slipped under an arch of the ancient red bridge and were at thelanding. I remember the scene as we stood on shore and looked down theshining way of the river, the tall grasses bending on either side likegreen fur stroked by the breeze; I remember the trim sea-wall and velvetlawn, and the low, long house with leaded windows of the place next theinn. A house-boat was moored to the shore below, white, with scarletgeraniums flowing the length of the upper deck, and willow chairs andtables; people were having tea up there; muslin curtains blew from theportholes below. Some Americans went past with two enormous Scotchdeer-hound puppies on leash. "Be quiet, Jock, " one of them said, and thebig, gentle-faced beast turned on her with a giant, caressing bound, thelast touch of beauty in the beautiful, quiet scene. 

It was early, so that we took the table which pleased us, one set a bitaside against a ten-foot hedge, and guarded by a tall bush of tea-roses. A plump maid hurried across the lawn and spread a cloth on our table andwaited, smiling, as if seeing us had simply made her day perfect. Andthe General gave the orders. 

"The plum-cake is going to be wonderful, " I said then, "and I'm hungryas a bear for tea. But the best thing I've been promised this afternoonis a fairy-story. "

The shrapnel look flashed, keen and bright and afire, but I looked backsteadily, not afraid. I knew what sunlight was going to break; and itbroke. 

"D'you know, " said he, "I'm really quite mad to talk about myself. Menalways are. You've heard the little tale of the man who said, 'Let'shave a garden-party. Let's go out on the lawn and talk about me'? Onebecomes a frightful bore quite easily. So that I've made rules--I don'thector people about--about things I've been concerned with. As to theincident I said I'd tell you, that would be quite impossible to tellto--well, practically anyone. "

My circulatory system did a prance; he could tell it practically to noone, yet he was going to tell it to me! I instantly said that. "Butyou're going to tell it to me?" I was anxious. 

"Child, you flatter well, " said the Marvelous Person, who had brought mepicnicking. "It's the American touch; there's a way with American womenquite irresistible. "

"Oh--American women!" I remonstrated. 

"Yes, indeed. They're delightful--you're witches, every mother'sdaughter of you. But you--ah--that's different, now. You and I, as wedecided long ago, on day before yesterday, have a bond. I can't help theconviction that you're the hundred-thousandth person. You haveunderstanding eyes. If I were a young man--And yet it's not just that;it's something a bit rarer. Moreover, they tell me there's a chap backin America. "

"Yes, " I owned. "There is a chap. " And I persisted: "I'm to have afairy-story?"

The black-lashed gaze narrowed as it traveled across the velvet turf andthe tall roses, down the path of the quiet river. He had a fine head, thick-thatched and grizzled, not white; his nose was of the straight, short English type, slightly chopped up at the end--a good-looking nose;his mouth was wide and not chiseled, yet sensitive as well as strong;the jaw was powerful and the chin square with a marked dimple in it;there was also color, the claret and honey of English tannedcomplexions. Of course his eyes, with the exaggeratedly thick and longblack lashes, were the wonderful part of him, but there is nodescribing the eyes. It was the look from them, probably, which madeGeneral Cochrane's face remarkable. I suppose it was partly thatcompelling look which had brought about his career. He was six feetfour, lean and military, full of presence, altogether a conspicuouslybeautiful old lion in a land where every third man is beautiful. 

"What are you looking munitions-of-war at, General, down the innocentlittle Thames River? You must be seeing around corners, past Wargrave, as far as Henley. "

"I didn't see the Thames River, " he shot at me in his masterful way. "Iwas looking at things past, and people dead and gone. We ancients dothat. I saw London streets and crowds; I read the posters which toldthat Kitchener was drowned at sea, and then I saw, a year later, Englandin panic; I saw an almighty meeting in Trafalgar Square and I heardspeeches which burned my ears--men urging Englishmen to surrenderEngland and make terms with the Huns. Good God!" His fist came down onthe rattling little iron table. 

"My blood boils now when I remember. Child, " he demanded, "I can't seewhy your alluring ways should have set me talking. Fancy, I've nevertold this tale but twice, and I'm holding forth to a little alien whom Ihaven't known two days, a young ne'er-do-well not born till forty yearsafter the tale happened!"

"What difference does that make?" I asked. "Age means nothing to realpeople. And we've known each other since--since we hunted pterodactylstogether, pre-historically. Only--I hate bats, " I objected to my ownarrangement. I went on: "If you knew how I want to hear! It's the mostwonderful thing in my life, this afternoon--you. "

"I know you are honest, " he said. "Different from the ruck. I knew thatthe moment I saw you. "

"Then, " I prodded, "do begin with the posters about Lord Kitchener. "

"But that's not the beginning, " he protested. "You'll spoil it all, " hesaid. 

"Oh, no, then! Begin at the beginning. I didn't know. I wanted to getyou started. "

The gray eyes dreamed down the placid river water. 

"The beginning was before I was born. It began when Kitchener, a younggeneral, picked up a marauding party of black rascals on his way toKhartoum. They had a captive, a white girl, a lady. They had murderedher father and mother and young brother. The father was newly appointedColonel of a regiment, traveling to his post with his family. The Arabswere saving the girl for their devilish head chieftain. Kitchener hadthe lot executed, and sent for the girl. She was--"

The old man's hand lifted to his head and he took off his hat and laidit on the ground. 

"I cannot speak of that girl without uncovering, " he said, quietly. "Shewas my mother. " There was an electrical silence. I knew enough to knowthat no words fitted here. The old officer went on: "She was one of thewonderful people. What she seemed to think of, after the horrors she hadgone through, was not herself or her suffering, but only to show hergratitude. It was a long journey--weeks--through that land of hell, while she was in Kitchener's hands, and not once did she lose courage. The Sirdar told me that it was having an angel in camp--she held thatrough soldiery in the hollow of her hand. She told Kitchener her story, and after that she would not talk of herself. You've heard that he neverhad a love affair? That's wrong. He was in love then, and for the restof his life, with my mother. "

I gasped. The shrapnel eyes menaced me. 

"She could not speak of herself, d'you see? It was salvation to thinkonly of others, so that she'd not told him that she was engaged to myfather. Love from any other was the last thing she was thinking of. After what had happened she was living from one breath to another andshe dared not consider her own affairs. The night before they reachedCairo, Kitchener asked her to marry him. He was over forty then; she wasnineteen. She told him of her engagement, of course--told him also thatit might be she would never marry at all; a life of her own andhappiness seemed impossible now. She might go into a sisterhood. Workfor others was what she must have. Then, unexpectedly, my father was atCairo to meet her, and Kitchener went to him and told him. From that onthe two men were close friends. My people were not married till fiveyears later, and when I came to be baptized General Kitchener wasgodfather. All my young days I was used to seeing him about the house atintervals, as if he belonged to us. I remember his eyes following mymother. Tall and slight she was, with a haunted look, from what she'dseen; she moved softly, spoke softly. It was no secret from the two, myfather and mother, that he loved her always. Yet, so loyal, so crystalhe was that my father had never one moment of jealousy. On the contrarythey were like brothers. Then they died--my father and mother. The twoalmost together. I came into Kitchener's hands, Lord Kitchener by then. When he met me in London, a long lad of seventeen, he held my fingers asecond and looked hard at me. 

"'You're very like her, Donald, ' he said. And held on. And said itagain. 'Your mother's double. I'd know you for her boy if I caught onelook of your eyes, anywhere, ' he said. 'Her boy. '--Well--what? Do I wantmore tea? Of course, I do. "

For the smiling plump maid had long ago brought the steaming stuff, thebread and butter and jam and plum cake, I had officiated and GeneralCochrane had been absorbing his tea as an Englishman does, automatically, while he talked. 

About us the tables were filling up, all over the rose-garden. TheAmericans were there with the beautiful long-legged giant deer-houndpuppy, Jock, and were having trouble with his table manners. People camein by twos and threes and more, from the river, with the glow ofexercise on their faces; an elderly country parson sat near, black-coated, white-collared, with his elderly daughter and their dog, awell-behaved Scottie this one, big-headed, with an age-old, wise, blackface. And a group of three pretty girls with their pretty pink-cheekedmother and a young man or so were having a gay time with soft-voicedlaughter and jokes, not far away. The breeze lifted the long purple androse-colored motor veils of mother and daughters. The whole place wasfull of bright colors and low-toned cheerful talk, yet so English wasthe atmosphere, that it was as if the General and I were shut into anenchanted forest. No one looked at us, no one seemed to know we werethere. The General began to talk again, unconscious as the rest ofanything or anybody not his affair. 

"I got my commission in 1915 in K-1, Kitchener's first hundred thousand, and I went off to the front in the second year of the war. I had ascratch and was slightly gassed once, but nothing much happened for along time. And in 1916, in May, came the news that my godfather, theperson closest to me on earth, was drowned at sea. I was in London, justout of the hospital and about to go back to France. "

The old General stopped and stared down at the graveled path with itstrim turf border lying at his feet. 

"It was to me as if the world, seething in its troubles, was suddenlyempty--with that man gone. I drifted with the crowd about London town, and the crowd appeared to be like myself, dazed. The streets were fulland there was continually a profound, sorrowful sound, like the groan ofa nation; faces were blank and gray. Those surging, mournful Londonstreets, and the look of the posters with great letters on them--hisname--that memory isn't likely to leave me till I die. Of course, I gothold of every detail and tried to picture the manner of it to myself, but I couldn't get it that he was dead. Kitchener, the heart of thenation; I couldn't comprehend that he had stopped breathing. I couldn'tget myself satisfied that I wasn't to see him again. It seemed theremust be some way out. You'll remember, perhaps, that four boats wereseen to put off from the _Hampshire_ as she sank? I tried to trace thoseboats. I traveled up there and interviewed people who had seen them. Igot no good from it. But it kept coming to me that it was not a minethat had sunk the ship, that it was a torpedo from a German submarine, and that Kitchener was on one of the boats that put off and that he hadbeen taken prisoner by the enemy. God knows why that thoughtpersisted--there were reasons against it--it was a boy's theory. But itpersisted; I couldn't get it out of my head. I was in St. Paul's at theMemorial Service; I heard the 'Last Post' played for him, and I saw theKing and Queen in tears; all that didn't settle my mind. I went back tothe front, heavy-hearted, and tried to behave myself as I believed he'dhave had me--the Sirdar. My people had called him the Sirdar always. Luck was with me in France; I had chances, and did a bit of work, andgot advancement. "

"I know, " I nodded. "I've read history. A few trifles like the rescue ofthe rifles and holding that trench and--"

The old soldier interrupted, looking thunderous. "It has a bearing onthe episode I'm about to tell you. That's why I refer to it. "

I didn't mind his haughtiness. It was given me to see the boy's shynesswithin that grim old hero. 

"So that when I landed in London in 1917, having been stupid enough toget my right arm potted, it happened that my name was known. They pickedme out to make a doing over. I was most uncommonly conspicuous fornothing more than thousands of other lads had done. They'd given theirlives like water, thousands of them--it made me sick with shame, when Ithought of those others, to have my name ringing through the land. Butso it was, and it served a purpose, right enough, I saw later. 

"Then, as I began to crawl about, came the crisis of the war. Ill newspiled on ill news; the army in France was down with an epidemic; eachday's news was worse than the last; to top all, the Germans found thefleet. It was in letters a foot long about London--newsboys crying awfulwords:

"'Fleet discovered--German submarines and Zeppelins approaching. '

"A bit later, still worse. 'The _Bellerophon_ sunk by Germantorpedo--ten dreadnoughts sunk--' There were the names of the big ships, the _Queen Elizabeth_, the _Warspite_, the _Thunderer_, the_Agamemnon_, the _King Edward_--a lot more, battle cruisers, too--thenten more dreadnoughts--and more and worse every hour. The German navywas said to be coming into the North Sea and advancing to our coast. Andour navy was going--gone--nothing to stand between us and the fate ofBelgium. 

"Then England went mad! I thank God I'll not live through such daysagain. The land went mad with fear. You'll remember that there had beena three-year strain which human nerves were not meant to bear. Well, there was a faction who urged that the only sane act now possible was tosurrender to Germany quickly and hope for a mercy which we couldn't getif we struggled. The government, under enormous pressure, weakened. It'seasy to cry 'Shame!' now, but how could it stand firm with the countrystampeding back of it?

"So things were the day of the mass meeting in Trafalgar Square. I wastall, and so thin and gaunt that, with my uniform and my arm in itssling, it was easy to get close to the front, straight under thespeakers. And no sooner had I got there than I was seized with arestlessness, an uncontrollable desire to see my godfather--Kitchener. Only to see him, to lay eyes on him. I wish I might express to you thepush of that feeling. It was thirst in a desert. With that spell on me Istood down in front of the stone lions and stared up at Nelson on hiscolumn, and listened to the speakers. They were mad, quite, thosespeakers. The crowd was mad, too. It overflowed that great space, andthere were few steady heads in the lot. You'll realize it looked a bitof a close shave, with the German navy coming and our fleet beingdestroyed, no one knew how fast, and the army in France, and struck downby illness. At that moment it looked a matter of three or four daysbefore the Huns would be landing. Never before in a thousand years wasEngland as near the finish. As I stood there fidgeting, with thestarvation on me for my godfather, it flashed to me that there's alegend in every nation about some one of its heroes, how in the hour ofneed he will come back to save the people--Charlemagne in France, don'tyou know, and Barbarossa and King Arthur and--oh, a number. And I spokealoud, so that the chap next prodded me in the ribs and said: 'Stopthat, will you? I can't hear'--I spoke aloud and said:

"'This is the hour. Come back and save us. '

"The speakers had been ranting along, urging on the people to force thegovernment to give in and make terms with those devils who'd crushedBelgium. Of course there were plenty there ready to die in the lastditch for honor and the country, but the mob was with the speakers. Quite insane with terror the mob was. And I spoke aloud to Kitchener, like a madman of a sort also, begging him to come from another world andsave his people. 

"'This is the hour; come and save us, ' said I, and said it as if mywords could get through to Kitchener in eternity. 

"With that a taxicab forced through the crowd, close to the platform, and it stopped and somebody got out. I could see an officer's cap andthe crowd pressing. My eyes were riveted on that brown cap; my breathcame queerly; there was a murmur, a hush and a murmur together, wherethat tall officer with the cap over his face pushed toward the speakers. I felt I should choke if I didn't see him--and I couldn't see him. Thenhe made the platform, and before my eyes, before the eyes of twentythousand people, he stood there--Kitchener!"

General Cochrane stared defiantly at me. "I'm not asking you to believethis, " he said. "I'm merely telling you--what happened. "

"Go on, " I whispered. 

He went on: "A silence like death fell on that vast crowd. The voice ofthe speaker screaming out wild cowardice about mercy from the Germanskept on for a few words, and then the man caught the electricalatmosphere and was aware that something was happening. He haltedhalf-way in a word, and turned and faced the grim, motionlessfigure--Kitchener. The man stared a half minute and shot his hands upand howled, and ran into the throng. All over the great place, by then, was a whisper swelling into a bass murmur, into a roar, his name. 

"'Kitchener--Kitchener!' and 'K. Of K. !' and 'Kitchener of Khartoum!'

"Never in my life have I heard a volume of sound like London shoutingthat day the name of Kitchener. After a time he lifted his hand andstood, deep-eyed and haggard, as the mass quieted. He spoke. I can'ttell you what he said. I couldn't have told you the next hour. But hequieted us and lifted us, that crowd, fearstruck, sobbing, into courage. He put his own steady dignity into those cheap, frightened littleJohnnies. He gave us strength even if the worst came, and he held upEnglish pluck and doggedness for us to look at and to live by. As hisvoice stopped, as I stood down in front just under him, I flung up myarms, and I suppose I cried out something; I was but a lad of twenty, and half crazed with the joy of seeing him. And he swung forward a stepto me as if he had seen me all the time--and I think he had. 'Do theturn, Donald, ' he said, 'The time has come for a Cochrane to saveEngland. '

"And with that he wheeled and without a look to right or left, in hisown swift, silent, shy way he was gone. 

"Nobody saw where he went. I all but killed myself for an hour trying tofind him, but it was of no use. And with that, as I sat at my lunch, toofeverish and stirred to eat food, demanding over and over what he meant, what the 'turn' was which I was to do, why a Cochrane should have achance to save England--with that, suddenly I knew. "

General Cochrane halted again, and again he gazed down the little river, the river of England, the river which he, more than any other, had keptfor English folk and their peaceful play-times. I knew I must not hurryhim; I waited. 

"The thing came to me like lightning, " he went on, "and I had only to gofrom one simple step to another; it seemed all thought out for me. Itwas something, don't you see, which I'd known all my lifetime, buthadn't once thought of since the war began. I went direct to my bankersand got a box out of the safe and fetched it home in a cab. There Iopened it and took out papers and went over them. . . . This part of thetale is mostly in print, " General Cochrane interrupted himself. "Haveyou read it? I don't want to bore you with repetitions. "

I answered hurriedly, trembling for fear I might say the wrong thing:"I've read what's in print, but your telling it puts it in anotherworld. Please go on. Please don't shorten anything. "

The shadow of a smile played. "I rather like telling you a story, d'youknow, " he spoke, half absent-mindedly--his real thoughts were with thathuge past. He swept back to it. "You know, of course, about Dundonald'sDestroyer--the invention of my great-grandfather's kinsman, ThomasCochrane, tenth Earl of Dundonald? He was a good bit of an old chap invarious ways. He did things to the French fleet that put him as a navalofficer in the class with Nelson and Drake. But he's remembered inhistory by his invention. It was a secret, of course, one of the puzzlesof the time and of years after, up to 1917. It was known there wassomething. He offered it to the government in 1811, and the governmentappointed a committee to examine into it. The chairman was the Duke ofYork, commander-in-chief of the army, said to be the ablestadministrator of military affairs of that time. Also there were AdmiralsLord Keith and Exmouth and the Congreve brothers of the ordnancedepartment. A more competent committee of five could not have beengathered in the world. This board would not recommend the adoption ofthe scheme. Why? They reported that there was no question that theinvention would do all which Dundonald claimed, but it was sounspeakably dreadful as to be impossible for civilized men. 

"There was not a shadow of doubt, the committee reported, thatDundonald's device would not merely defeat but annihilate and sweep outof existence any hostile force, whole armies and navies. 'No power onearth could stand against it, ' said the old fellow, and the five expertsbacked him up. But they considered that the devastation would be inhumanbeyond permissible warfare. Not war, annihilation. In fact, they shelvedit because it was too efficient. There was great need of means forfighting Napoleon just then, so they gave it up reluctantly, but it wasa bit too shocking. 

"The weak point of the business was, as Dundonald himself declared, thatit was so simple--as everybody knows now--that its first use would tellthe secret and put it in the hands of other nations. Therefore thecommittee recommended that this incipient destruction should be stowedaway and kept secret, so that no power more unscrupulous than Englandshould get it and use it for the annihilation of England and theconquest of the world. Also the committee persuaded the Earl before hewent on his South American adventure to swear formally that he wouldnever disclose his device except in the service of England. He kept thatoath. 

"Well, the formula for this affair was, of course, in pigeonholes orvaults in the British Admiralty ever since the committee in 1811 hadexamined and refused it. But there was also, unknown to the public, another copy. The Earl was with my great-grandfather, his kinsman andlifelong friend, shortly before his death, and he gave this copy to himwith certain conditions. The old chap had an ungovernable temper, quarreled right and left, don't you know, his life long, and at thistime and until he died he was not on speaking terms with his son Thomas, who succeeded him as Earl, or indeed with any of the three other sons. Which accounts for his trusting to my great-grandfather the future ofhis invention. I found a quaint note with the papers. He said in effectthat he had come to believe with the committee that it was quite tooshocking for decent folk. Yet, he suggested, the time might come whenEngland was in straits and only a sweeping blow could serve her. If thattime should come it would be a joy to him in heaven or in hell--hesaid--to think that a man of his name had used the work of his brains tosave England. 

"Therefore, the Earl asked my grandfather to guard this gigantic secretand to see to it that one man in each generation of Cochranes shouldknow it and have it at hand for use in an emergency. My grandfather cameinto the papers when he came of age, and after him my father; I was dueto read them when I should be twenty-one. I was only twenty in 1917. Butthe papers were mine, and from the moment it flashed to me whatKitchener meant I didn't hesitate. It was this enormous power which wasplaced suddenly in the hands of a lad of twenty. The Sirdar placed itthere. 

"I went over the business in an hour--it was simple, like most bigthings. You know what it was, of course; everybody knows now. Wasn't itextraordinary that in five thousand years of fighting no one ever hit onit before? I rushed to the War Office. 

"Well, the thing came off. At first they pooh-poohed me as an unbalancedboy, but they looked up the documents in the Admiralty and there was noquestion. It isn't often a youngster is called into the councils of thegovernment, and I've wondered since how I held my own. I've come tobelieve that I was merely a body for Kitchener's spirit. I was consciousof no fatigue, no uncertainty. I did things as the Sirdar might havedone them, and it appears to me only decent to realize that he did dothem, and not I. You probably know the details. "

I waited, hoping that he would not stop. Then I said: "I know that thegovernment asked for twenty-five volunteers for a service which woulddestroy the German fleet, but which would mean almost certain death tothe volunteers. I know that you headed the list and that thousandsoffered. " My voice shook and I spoke with difficulty as I realized towhom I was speaking. "I know that you were the only one who came backalive, and that you were barely saved. "

General Cochrane seemed not to hear me. He was living over enormousevents. 

"It was a bright morning in the North Sea, " he talked on, but not to menow. "Nobody but ourselves knew just what was to be done, but everybodyhoped--they didn't know what. It was a desperate England from which wesailed away. We hadn't long to wait--the second morning. There weretheir ships, the triumphant long lines of the invader. There were theircrowded transports, the soldiers coming to crucify England as they hadcrucified Belgium--thousands and tens of thousands of them. Then--wedid it. German power was wiped off the face of the earth. Germanarrogance was ended for all time. And that was the last I knew, " saidGeneral Cochrane. "I was conscious till it was known that the trick hadworked. Of course it couldn't be otherwise, yet it was so beyondanything which mankind had dreamed that I couldn't believe it till Iknew. Then, naturally, I didn't much care if I lived or died. I'd donethe turn as the Sirdar told me, and one life was a small thing to pay. Idropped into blackness quite happily, and when I woke up to this goodearth I was glad. England was right. The Sirdar had saved her. "

"And the Sirdar?" I asked him. "Was it--himself?"

"Himself? Most certainly. "

"I mean--well--" I stammered. And then I plunged in. "I must know, " Isaid. "Was it Lord Kitchener in flesh and blood? Had he been a prisonerin Germany and escaped? Or was it--his ghost?"

The old lion rubbed his cheek consideringly. "Ah, there you have me, "and he smiled. "Didn't I tell you this was a tale which could be told tofew people?" he demanded. "'Flesh and blood'--ah, that's what I can'ttell you. But--himself? Those people, the immense crowd which saw himand recognized him, they knew. Afterwards they begged the question. Thepapers were full of a remarkable speech made by an unknown officer whostrikingly resembled Kitchener. That's the way they got out of it. Butthose people knew, that day. There wasn't any doubt in their minds whenthat roar of his name went up. They knew! But people are ashamed to ownto the supernatural. And yet it's all around us, " mused GeneralCochrane. 

"Could it have been--did you ever think--" I began, and dared not go on. 

"Did I ever think what, child?" repeated the old officer, with hisautocratic friendliness. "Out with it. You and I are having atruth-feast. "

"Well, then, " I said, "if you won't be angry--"

"I won't. Come along. "

"Did you ever think that it might have been that--you were only a boy, and wounded and weak and overstrained--and full of longing for yourgodfather. Did you ever think that you might have mistaken the likenessof the officer for Kitchener himself? That the thought of Dundonald'sDestroyer was working in your mind before, and that it materialized atthat moment and you--imagined the words he said. Perhaps imagined themafterwards, as you searched for him over London. The two things mighthave suggested each other in your feverish boy's brain. "

I stopped, frightened, fearful that he might think me not appreciativeof the honor he had done me in telling this intimate experience. ButGeneral Cochrane was in no wise disturbed. 

"Yes, I've thought that, " he answered dispassionately. "It may be thatwas the case. And yet--I can't see it. That thing happened to me. I'venot been able to explain it away to my own satisfaction. I've not beenable to believe otherwise than that the Sirdar, England's hero, came tosave England in her peril, and that he did it by breathing his thoughtinto me. His spirit got across somehow from over there--to me. I was theonly available person alive. The copy in the archives was buried, deadand buried and forgotten for seventy years. So he did it--that way. Andif your explanation is the right one it isn't so much less wonderful, isit?" he demanded. "In these days psychology dares say more than in 1917. One knows that ghost stories, as they called them in those ignoranttimes, are not all superstition and imagination. One knows that a soullives beyond the present, that a soul sometimes struggles back from whatwe call the hereafter to this little earth--makes the difficultconnection between an unseen world of spirit, unconditioned by matter, and our present world of spirit, conditioned by matter. When the pull isstrong enough. And what pull could be stronger than England's danger? ToKitchener?" The black-lashed, gray eyes flamed at me, unblinking therift of light through the curtain of eternal silences. 

When I spoke again: "It's a story the world ought to own some day, " Isaid. "Love of country, faithfulness that death could not hinder. "

"Well, " said old General Cochrane, "when I'm gone you may write it forthe world if you like, little American. And what I'll do will be to findthe Sirdar, the very first instant I'm over the border, and say to him, 'I've known it was your work all along, sir, and however did you get itacross?'"

A month ago my cousin sent me some marked newspapers. General Cochranehas gone over the border, and I make no doubt that before now he hasfound the Sirdar and that the two sons and saviors of a beloved littleland on a little planet have talked over that moment, in the leisuresand simplicities of eternity, and have wondered perhaps that anyonecould wonder how he got it across.