day."

"You knew more German then?" asked Leonard.

"Yes, I suppose so; but I didn't need to understand. It was all in the
sun, and the air was all warm from the cut clovers, and his eyes were,
oh, so blue! And--I don't know. He took off his helmet and put it on my
head, and he took his sword out of the scabbard and he put it in my
hand, and he said, oh, all kinds of things in German that I couldn't
understand very well."

"He was probably asking you how much your dowry was."

"Maybe, but his eyes didn't ask me that. And that was all. I never saw
him again, and I don't ever expect to."

"Should rather think not."

"Would you mind?"

"Certainly," said Leonard.

"They're horrible tyrants, English husbands," said Marjie, kissing his
arm.

"Not so bad as German ones," he replied, putting his head down to hers.

The casements rattled. Into the little dark square of the compartment
window peered a confusion of lights, the myriad eyes of a great city.

"Why, it's London!" cried Marjorie. "I'd lost all track of time. Hadn't
you, Leonard?"

"No," he answered laconically, slamming down the lid of the tea-basket.

But Marjorie squeezed up against him and gave a little laugh. "Supposing
it could be the same man, Leonard," she said.

"What man?" asked Leonard, snapping the lock.

"Why, the man of the Helmet--the Dying Gaul--and my man I've been
telling you about."

Leonard looked at her, and for some reason his eyes flinched. "What
difference would that make? He was German," was all he said.

It was a sultry evening. Flowers were being sold in profusion on street
corners. Hurdy-gurdies played war tunes in the gutter. The streets were
filled with soldiers in khaki and florid civilians in their summer
clothes. Suddenly she remembered a passage in the Bible that always
seemed beautiful to her, but now it seemed to have been specially
written for her:--

"Where thou goest, I will go, And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy
people shall be my people, And thy God, my God."

She walked as close to Leonard as she dared: "Thy people shall be my
people, And thy God, my God."

The passers-by smiled at her and turned and stared after. "Awfully hard
on a girl," they thought, touched by the rapt look on the young face.

"Oh, Len," she whispered, pulling at his arm, "I love all these people;
I love England."

He smiled indulgently.

"They're all right," he assented; "I don't mind strangers, but I hate
the thought