ight of him. Ah! There he was
stooping over a little white haired woman, taking her tenderly in his
arms to kiss her. The girl's eyes lingered on him. His whole attitude was
such a revelation of the man the rollicking boy had become. It seemed to
pleasantly round out her thought of him.

The whistle sounded, the drafted men gave one last wringing hand-clasp,
one last look, and sprang on board.

John Cameron was the last to board the train. He stood on the lower step
of the last car as it began to move slowly. His hat was lifted, and he
stood with slightly lifted chin and eyes that looked as if they had
sounded the depths of all sadness and surrendered himself to whatever had
been decreed. There was settled sorrow in all the lines of his fine face.
Ruth was startled by the change in it; by the look of the boy in the man.
Had the war done that for him just in one short summer? Had it done that
for the thousands who were going to fight for her? And she was sitting in
her luxurious car with a bundle of wool at her feet, and presuming to
bear her part by mere knitting! Poor little useless woman that she was! A
thing to send a man forth from everything he counted dear or wanted to
do, into suffering and hardship--and _death_--perhaps! She shuddered as
she watched his face with its strong uplifted look, and its unutterable
sorrow. She had not thought he could look like that! Oh, he would be gay
to-morrow, like the rest, of course, with his merry jest and his
contagious grin, and making light of the serious business of war! He
would not be the boy he used to be without the ability to do that. But
she would never forget how he had looked in this farewell minute while he
was gazing his last on the life of his boyhood and being borne away into
a dubious future. She felt a hopelessly yearning, as if, had there been
time, she would have liked to have told him how much she appreciated his
doing this great deed for her and for all her sisters!

Has it ever been fully explained why the eyes of one person looking hard
across a crowd will draw the eyes of another?

The train had slipped along ten feet or more and was gaining speed when
John Cameron's eyes met those of Ruth Macdonald, and her vivid speaking
face flashed its message to his soul. A pleased wonder sprang into his
eyes, a question as his glance lingered, held by the tumult in her face,
and the unmistakable personality of her glance. Then his face lit up with
its old smile,