hat patriotism was all
right, but that there were limits. Betty put on her organdie and went.

It began with cream soup and ended with shortcake. Even Chug realized
that his mother had outdone herself. After his second helping of
shortcake he leaned back and said, "Death, where is thy sting?" But his
mother refused to laugh at that. She couldn't resist telling Miss Weld
that it was plain food but that she hoped she'd enjoyed it.

Elizabeth Weld leaned forward. "Mrs. Scaritt, it's the best dinner I've
ever eaten."

Mrs. Scaritt flushed a little, but protested, politely: "Oh, now! You
folks up in the East End--"

"Not the Welds. Mother and I are as poor as can be. Everybody knows
that. We have lots of doylies and silver on the table, but very little
to eat. We never could afford a meal like this. We're sort of
crackers-and-tea codfish, really."

"Oh, now, Miss Weld!" Chug's mother was aghast at such frankness. But
Chug looked at the girl. She looked at him. They smiled understandingly
at each other.

An hour or so later, after Elizabeth had admired the vegetable garden,
the hanging flower-baskets, the new parlour curtains ("I used to do 'em
up for folks in town," said Mrs. Scaritt, "so's Chug could go to high
school." And "I know it. That's what I call splendid," from the girl),
she went home, escorted by Chug.

Chug's hunch proved a good one. In a week he was gone. Thirteen months
passed before he saw Elizabeth Weld again. When he did, Chippewa had
swung back to normal. The railroad tracks were once more boundary lines.

Chug Scaritt went to France to fight. Three months later Elizabeth Weld
went to France to dance. They worked hard at their jobs, these two.
Perhaps Elizabeth's task was the more trying. She danced indefatigably,
tirelessly, magnificently. Miles, and miles, and miles of dancing. She
danced on rough plank floors with cracks an inch wide between the
boards. She danced in hospitals, chateaux, canteens, huts; at Bordeaux,
Verdun, Tours, Paris. Five girls, often, to five hundred boys. Every two
weeks she danced out a pair of shoes. Her feet, when she went to bed at
night, were throbbing, burning, aching, swollen. No hot water. You let
them throb, and burn, and ache, and swell until you fell asleep. She
danced with big blond bucks, and with little swarthy doughboys from New
York's East Side. She danced with privates, lieutenants, captains; and
once with a general. But never a dance with Chug.

Once o