had brought the laughter and the tears, brought the hope
and the radiance and the tragedy of life.

And then, suddenly and inexplicably, Katie was afraid. Of just what,
she did not know; of things--big, tempestuous things--which Katie did
not very well understand, and which Ann--perhaps not understanding
either--seemed to embody. "Come, Ann," she said, "we must make ready
for dinner."

Captain Prescott called after them that next he was going to teach Ann to
ride. "Oh, we'll make an army girl of her yet," he laughed.

Ann turned back. "Do you know," she said, "I don't understand the army
very well. Just what is it the army does?"

They laughed. "Ask the peace society in Boston," suggested Prescott.

But Wayne said: "Some day soon you and I'll take a ride on the river and
I'll deliver a little lecture on the army."

"Oh, that will be nice," said Ann radiantly.

CHAPTER XIV

It was astonishing how Ann seemed to find herself in just that thing of
being able to learn to play golf.

They were gay at dinner that night, and Ann was as gay as any one. She
continued to talk about her game, which they jestingly permitted her to
do, and the men told some good golf stories which she entered into
merrily. It was Katie who was rather quiet. While they still lingered
around the table Fred Wayneworth joined them, and Katie, eager to talk
with him of his people and his work, left Ann alone with Wayne and
Captain Prescott, something which up to that time she had been reluctant
to do. But to-night she did not feel Ann clinging to her, calling out to
her, as she had felt her before. She seemed on surer ground; it was as if
golf had given her a passport. From her place in the garden with her
cousin, Ann's laugh came down to them from time to time--just a girl's
happy laugh.

"Who is your stunning friend, Katie?" Fred asked. "No, stunning doesn't
fit her, but lovely. She is lovely, isn't she?"

"Ann's very pretty," said Kate shortly.

"Oh--pretty," he laughed, "that won't do at all. So many girls are
pretty, and I never saw any girl just like her."

Again she was vaguely uneasy, and the uneasiness irritated her, and then
she was ashamed of the irritation. Didn't she want poor Ann to have a
good time--and feel at home--and be admired? Did she care for her when
she was somber and shy, and resent her when happy and confident? She told
herself she was glad to hear Ann laughing; and yet each time the happy
little laugh sti