turned to the
lovely lady. "Lady Moya," I said, "I want to introduce you to my
father!" I pointed to the vine-covered cottage.

"That's my home," I said. I pointed to the sleeping town. "That," I
told her, "is the village of Fairport. Most of it belongs to father. You
are all very welcome."

PEACE MANOEUVRES

The scout stood where three roads cut three green tunnels in the pine
woods, and met at his feet. Above his head an aged sign-post pointed
impartially to East Carver, South Carver, and Carver Centre, and left
the choice to him.

The scout scowled and bit nervously at his gauntlet. The choice was
difficult, and there was no one with whom he could take counsel. The
three sun-shot roads lay empty, and the other scouts, who, with him, had
left the main column at sunrise, he had ordered back. They were to
report that on the right flank, so far, at least, as Middleboro, there
was no sign of the enemy. What lay beyond, it now was his duty to
discover. The three empty roads spread before him like a picture puzzle,
smiling at his predicament. Whichever one he followed left two
unguarded. Should he creep upon for choice Carver Centre, the enemy,
masked by a mile of fir trees, might advance from Carver or South
Carver, and obviously he could not follow three roads at the same time.
He considered the better strategy would be to wait where he was, where
the three roads met, and allow the enemy himself to disclose his
position. To the scout this course was most distasteful. He assured
himself that this was so because, while it were the safer course, it
wasted time and lacked initiative. But in his heart he knew that was not
the reason, and to his heart his head answered that when one's country
is at war, when fields and firesides are trampled by the iron heels of
the invader, a scout should act not according to the dictates of his
heart, but in the service of his native land. In the case of this
particular patriot, the man and scout were at odds. As one of the
Bicycle Squad of the Boston Corps of Cadets, the scout knew what, at
this momentous crisis in her history, the commonwealth of Massachusetts
demanded of him. It was that he sit tight and wait for the hated
foreigners from New York City, New Jersey, and Connecticut to show
themselves. But the man knew, and had known for several years, that on
the road to Carver was the summer home of one Beatrice Farrar. As
Private Lathrop it was no part of his duty to know th