ore, much
to her annoyance. She wondered angrily if she would never be able to stop
that childish habit of blushing, and why it annoyed her so very much this
morning to have her name coupled with that of Harry Wainwright. He was
her old friend and playmate, having lived next door to her all her life,
and it was but natural when everybody was sweethearting and getting
married, that people should speak of her and wonder whether there might
be anything more to their relationship than mere friendship. Still it
annoyed her. Continually as she turned the pages from one fat smug
Wainwright countenance to another, she saw in a mist the face of another
man, with uplifted head and sorrowful eyes. She wondered if when the time
came for Harry Wainwright to go he would have aught of the vision, and
aught of the holiness of sorrow that had shown in that other face.

She handed the proofs back to the mother, so like her son in her ample
blandness, and wondered if Mrs. Cameron would have a picture of her son
in his uniform, fine and large and lifelike as these were.

She interrupted her thoughts to hear Mrs. Wainwright's clarion voice
lifted in parting from the door of the Club House on her way back to her
car:

"Well, good-bye, Ruth dear. Don't hesitate to let me know if you'd like
to have either of the other two large ones for your own 'specials,' you
know. I shan't mind changing the order a bit. Harry said you were to have
as many as you wanted. I'll hold the proofs for a day or two and let you
think it over."

Ruth lifted her eyes to see the gaze of every woman in the room upon her,
and for a moment she felt as if she almost hated poor fat doting Mamma
Wainwright. Then the humorous side of the moment came to help her and her
face blossomed into a smile as she jauntily replied:

"Oh, no, please don't bother, Mrs. Wainwright. I'm not going to paper the
wall with them. I have other friends, you know. I think your choice was
the best of them all."

Then as gaily as if she were not raging within her soul she turned to
help poor Dottie Wetherill who was hopelessly muddled about turning her
heel.

Dottie chattered on above the turmoil of her soul, and her words were as
tiny April showers sizzling on a red hot cannon. By and by she picked up
Dottie's dropped stitches. After all, what did such things matter when
there was _war_ and men were giving their _lives_!

"And Bob says he doubts if they ever get to France. He says he thinks