s long as he walked slowly he managed not to give any hint of
his weakness. The sun was shining with steely brightness and the March
wind was living up to its fame. He longed for summer and hot days in
quiet woods or fields where daisies bloomed. Would he live to see the
Indian summer days, the smoky haze, the purple asters?

Lane was admitted at once into the office of Doctor Bronson, a little,
gray, slight man with shrewd, kind eyes and a thoughtful brow. For
years he had been a friend as well as physician to the Lanes, and he
had always liked Daren. His surprise was great and his welcome warm.
But a moment later he gazed at Lane with piercing eyes.

"Look here, boy, did you go to the bad over there?" he demanded.

"How do you mean, Doctor?"

"Did you let down--debase yourself morally?"

"No. But I went to the bad physically and spiritually."

"I see that. I don't like the color of your face.... Well, well,
Daren. It was hell, wasn't it? Did you kill a couple of Huns for me?"

Questions like this latter one always alienated Lane in some
unaccountable way. It must have been revealed in his face.

"Never mind, Daren. I see that you _did_.... I'm glad you're back
alive. Now what can I do for you?"

"I've been discharged from three hospitals in the last two months--not
because I was well, but because I was in better shape than some other
poor devil. Those doctors in the service grew hard--they had to be
hard--but they saw the worst, the agony of the war. I always felt
sorry for them. They never seemed to eat or sleep or rest. They had no
time to save a man. It was cut him up or tie him up--then on to the
next.... Now, Doc, I want you to look me over and--well--tell me what
to expect."

"All right," replied Doctor Bronson, gruffly.

"And I want you to promise not to tell mother or any one. Will you?"

"Yes, I promise. Now come in here and get off some of your clothes."

"Doctor, it's pretty tough on me to get in and out of my clothes."

"I'll help you. Now tell me what the Germans did to you."

Lane laughed grimly. "Doctor, do you remember I was in your Sunday
School class?"

"Yes, I remember that. What's it got to do with Germans?"

"Nothing. It struck me funny, that's all.... Well, to get it over. I
was injured several times at the training camp."

"Anything serious?"

"No, I guess not. Anyway I forgot about _them._ Doctor, I was shot
four times, once clear through. I'll show you. Got a bad bayonet