ing. Instead he rose and, saying something about cal'latin' he would
go for a little walk before turning in, went out into the yard.

But the war did not end, it went on; so too did the enlisting and
training. In the early summer Albert came home for a two days' leave. He
was broader and straighter and browner. His uniform became him and, more
than ever, the eyes of South Harniss's youthful femininity, native or
imported, followed him as he walked the village streets. But the glances
were not returned, not in kind, that is. The new Fosdick home, although
completed, was not occupied. Mrs. Fosdick had, that summer, decided
that her duties as mover in goodness knows how many war work activities
prevented her taking her "usual summer rest." Instead she and Madeline
occupied a rented villa at Greenwich, Connecticut, coming into town
for meetings of all sorts. Captain Zelotes had his own suspicions as to
whether war work alone was the cause of the Fosdicks' shunning of what
was to have been their summer home, but he kept those suspicions to
himself. Albert may have suspected also, but he, too, said nothing. The
censored correspondence between Greenwich and the training camp traveled
regularly, and South Harniss damsels looked and longed in vain. He
saw them, he bowed to them, he even addressed them pleasantly and
charmingly, but to him they were merely incidents in his walks to and
from the post-office. In his mind's eye he saw but one, and she, alas,
was not present in the flesh.

Then he returned to the camp where, later on, Captain Zelotes and Olive
visited him. As they came away the captain and his grandson exchanged a
few significant words.

"It is likely to be almost any time, Grandfather," said Albert, quietly.
"They are beginning to send them now, as you know by the papers, and we
have had the tip that our turn will be soon. So--"

Captain Lote grasped the significance of the uncompleted sentence.

"I see, Al," he answered, "I see. Well, boy, I--I--Good luck."

"Good luck, Grandfather."

That was all, that and one more handclasp. Our Anglo-Saxon inheritance
descends upon us in times like these. The captain was silent for most of
the ride to the railroad station.

Then followed a long, significant interval during which there were no
letters from the young soldier. After this a short reassuring cablegram
from "Somewhere in France." "Safe. Well," it read and Olive Snow carried
it about with her, in the bosom of h