sometimes." The people thought him inspired.
Widow Stokes whispered to her neighbour, "It's his daughter he's
thinking of."

Dave Fellows was the only person who left the town. He went back to his
wife when he saw that the town was saved and said, "We might as well
move now that we're packed up. The town is cursed." Two days later they
took the train north from a pile of blackened timbers where the old
station had stood. Lawrence went with them.

The enemy had eaten up all the records in the Company store, and had
tried to eat up George Brainerd while he was attempting to save them.
The Company had to accept the workers' own accounts. George was going
about with his arm tied up, planning to keep a duplicate set of records
in a place unassailable by the enemy.

Abe Cohen wailed so about his losses and his little children that Mr.
Stillman set him up in a brand new stock of clothing. Abe was telling
every one, "Buy now. Pay when you like." And customers came as of old.

Guy Stillman married the Barringers' hired girl. His father established
them in a little home out at the edge of the town. The nearest neighbour
reported that Guy beat his wife.

Lyda married Ned Backus. "Suppose you had died," she told Ned. "I would
never have forgiven myself. You can work in papa's new grocery store.
He's going to start one as soon as we can get the building done. Mama
will have a son to help take care of her."

Life, its strands blackened by the strong breath of the enemy, settled
down once more over the town and hung there, secure in its pattern,
thick and powerful. Under it brick stores and buildings rose up and
people stood about talking, complacently planning their days. "It won't
come again for a long time," they said.

FOOTNOTE:

[5] Copyright, 1920, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright,
1921, by Edna Clare Bryner.

THE SIGNAL TOWER[6]

#By# WADSWORTH CAMP

From _The Metropolitan_

"I get afraid when you leave me alone this way at night."

The big man, Tolliver, patted his wife's head. His coarse laughter was
meant to reassure, but, as he glanced about the living-room of his
remote and cheerless house, his eyes were uneasy. The little boy, just
six years old, crouched by the cook-stove, whimpering over the remains
of his supper.

"What are you afraid of?" Tolliver scoffed.

The stagnant loneliness, the perpetual drudgery, had not yet conquered
his wife's beauty, dark and desirable. She motion