in Lorna's face. Lane felt
rise in him a desire to bid her sharply to omit slang and profanity
from the conversation. But the desire faded before his bewilderment.
All had suffered change. What had he come home to? There was no clear
answer. But whatever it was, he felt it to be enormous and staggering.
And he meant to find out. Weary as was his mind, it grasped peculiar
significances and deep portents.

"Lorna, where do you work?" he began, shifting his interest.

"At Swann's," she replied.

"In the office--at the foundry?" he asked.

"No. Mr. Swann's at the head of the leather works."

"What do you do?"

"I type letters," she answered, and rose to make him a little bow that
held the movement and the suggestion of a dancer.

"You've learned stenography?" he asked, in surprise.

"I'm learning shorthand," replied Lorna. "You see I had only a few
weeks in business school before Dick got me the job."

"Dick Swann? Do you work for him?"

"No. For the superintendent, Mr. Fryer. But I go to Dick's office to
do letters for him some of the time."

She appeared frank and nonchalant, evidently a little proud of her
important position. She posed before Lane and pirouetted with fancy
little steps.

"Say, Dare, won't you teach me a new dance--right from Paris?" she
interposed. "Something that will put the shimmy and toddle out of
biz?"

"Lorna, I don't know what the shimmy and toddle are. I've only heard
of them."

"Buried alive, I'll say," she retorted.

Lane bit his tongue to keep back a hot reprimand. He looked at his
mother, who was clearing off the supper table. She looked sad. The
light had left her worn face. Lane did not feel sure of his ground
here. So he controlled his feelings and directed his interest toward
more news.

"Of course Dick Swann was in the service?" he asked.

"No. He didn't go," replied Lorna.

The information struck Lane singularly. Dick Swann had always been a
prominent figure in the Middleville battery, in those seemingly long
past years since before the war.

"Why didn't Dick go into the service? Why didn't the draft get him?"

"He had poor eyesight, and his father needed him at the iron works."

"Poor eyesight!" ejaculated Lane. "He was the best shot in the
battery--the best hunter among the boys. Well, that's funny."

"Daren, there are people who called Dick Swann a slacker," returned
Lorna, as if forced to give this information. "But I never saw that it
hurt him. He's ri