he house.

She would like to have remained; she would like to have talked with the
other soldier and found out why he entered the service and what he
thought of it. She was possessed of a great desire to ask people
questions, find out why they had done what they did and what they thought
about things other people were doing. Her mind was sending out little
shoots in all directions and those little shoots were begging for food
and drink.

She wished she might have a long talk with the "trouble-maker." She
would like to talk about dogs who had lived in alleys and dogs that had
been reared in kennels, about soldiers who were willing to recognize
their betters and soldiers who thought they were as good as some above
them. She would like to talk about Watts. Watts was the son of an old
English servant. It was in Watts' blood to "recognize his betters." Was
that why he could be moved to no sense of responsibility about stray
dogs? Was that why he was a good man for the service and had no
ambitions as civilian?

And Ann--she would like to talk to the boat-mending trouble-maker about
Ann: Why Ann, whom one would expect to find sympathetic with the
homeless, should be so hard and so queer about forlorn little stray
dogs. Oh the world was just full of things that Katie Jones wanted to
talk about that night!

When she reached the house she found that she had just received a
package by special messenger. She tore off the outer wrapper and on the
inner was written in red ink: "Danger." Murmuring some inane thing about
its being her shoes, she ran with the package to her room. For a young
woman who had all her life received packages of all kinds she was
inordinately excited.

It held three books. One of them was about women who worked. There
were pictures of girls working in factories and in different places.
One was something about evolution, and one was on socialism. And there
was a pamphlet about the United States Army, and another pamphlet
about religion.

She looked for a name in the books, but found none. The fly-leaves had
been torn out.

She was not sorry; she was just as glad to go on thinking of her
trouble-maker as the man who mended the boats. There was something
freeing about keeping him impersonal.

But in the book about women she found an envelope addressed: "To one
looking for trouble."

This was what was type-written on the single sheet it contained:

"Here are a couple of books warranted to disturb one