eful, all as it had been since some other
cook made omelettes for the little aristocrat of an Irish grandmother
who would not under any circumstances have sat in the kitchen on terms
of familiarity with a dependent. The world had progressed much in
democracy since those days. Those who had fought in this part of the
country for liberty and equality had not really known it. They had
seen the Vision, but it was to be given to their descendants to realize
it.

Jean rocked and rocked. "I hate war," she said, suddenly. "I didn't
until Daddy said he was going, and then it seemed to come--so near--all
the time I am trying to push the thought of it away. I wouldn't tell
him, of course. But I don't want him to go."

"No, I wouldn't tell him. We women may be scared to death, but it
ain't the time to tell our men that we are scared."

"Are you scared to death, Mrs. Connolly?"

The steady eyes met hers. "Sometimes, in the night, when I think of
the wet and cold, and the wounded groaning under the stars. But when
the morning comes, I cook the breakfast and get Jim off, and he don't
know but that I am as cheerful as one of our old hens, and then I go
over to the church, and tell it all to the blessed Virgin, and I am
ready to write to my boys of how proud I am, and how fine they are--and
of every little tiny thing that has happened on the farm."

Thus the heroic Mary Connolly--type of a million of her kind in
America--of more than a million of her kind throughout the
world--hiding her fears deep in her heart that her men might go cheered
to battle.

The omelette was finished, and the Doctor and Jim Connolly had come in.
"The stars are out," the Doctor said. "After supper we'll walk a bit."

Jean was never to forget that walk with her father. It was her last
long walk with him before he went to France, her last intimate talk.
It was very cold, and he took her arm, the snow crunched under their
feet.

Faintly the chimes of the old College came up to them. "Nine o'clock,"
said the Doctor. "Think of all the years I've heard the chimes, I have
lived over half a century--and my father before me heard them--and they
rang in my grandfather's time. Perhaps they will ring in the ears of
my grandchildren, Jean."

They had stopped to listen, but now they went on. "Do you know what
they used to say to me when I was a little boy?

'The Lord watch
Between thee and--me--'"

"My mother and I used to repeat it toge