E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
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Transcriber's note:

   Chapter numbering skips Chapter XI in the printed text. The
   original numbering has been retained in this transcription.





THE SEARCH

by

GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL







Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1919, By The Christian Herald
Copyright, 1919, By J. B. Lippincott Company

Printed in the United States of America




THE SEARCH






THE SEARCH

I


Two young men in officers' uniforms entered the smoker of a suburban
train, and after the usual formalities of matches and cigarettes settled
back to enjoy their ride out to Bryne Haven.

"What d'ye think of that girl I introduced you to the other night, Harry?
Isn't she a pippin?" asked the second lieutenant taking a luxurious puff
at his cigarette.

"I should say, Bobbie, she's some girl! Where d'ye pick her up? I
certainly owe you one for a good time."

"Don't speak of it, Harry. Come on with me and try it again. I'm going to
see her friend to-night and can get her over the 'phone any time. She's
just nuts about you. What do you say? Shall I call her up?"

"Well, hardly to-night, Bob," said the first lieutenant thoughtfully,
"she's a ripping fine girl and all that, of course, but the fact is, Bob,
I've decided to marry Ruth Macdonald and I haven't much time left before
I go over. I think I'll have to get things fixed up between us to-night,
you see. Perhaps--later----. But no. I guess that wouldn't do. Ruth's
folks are rather fussy about such things. It might get out. No, Bob, I'll
have to forego the pleasures you offer me this time."

The second lieutenant sat up and whistled:

"You've decided to marry Ruth Macdonald!" he ejaculated, staring. "But
has Ruth Macdonald decided to marry you?"

"I hardly think there'll be any trouble on that score when I get ready to
propose," smiled the first lieutenant complacently, as he lolled back in
his seat. "You seem surprised," he added.

"Well, rather!" said the other officer dryly, still staring.

"What's there so surprising about that?" The first lieutenant was
enjoying the sensation he was creating. He knew that the second
lieutenant had always been "sweet" on Ruth Macdonald.

"Well, you know, Harry, you're pretty rotten!" said the second lieutenant
uneasily, a flush beginning to rise in his face. "I didn't think you'd
have the nerve. She's a mighty fine girl, you know. She's--_unusual_!"

"Exactly. Didn't you suppose I would want a fine girl when I marry?"

"I don't believe you're really going to do it!" burst forth the second
lieutenant. "In fact, I don't believe I'll _let_ you do it if you try!"

"You couldn't stop me, Bob!" with an amiable sneer. "One word from you,
young man, and I'd put your captain wise about where you were the last
time you overstayed your leave and got away with it. You know I've got a
pull with your captain. It never pays for the pot to call the kettle
black."

The second lieutenant sat back sullenly with a deep red streaking his
cheeks.

"You're no angel yourself, Bob, see?" went on the first lieutenant lying
back in his seat in satisfied triumph, "and I'm going to marry Ruth
Macdonald next week and get a ten days' leave! Put that in your pipe and
smoke it!"

There ensued a long and pregnant silence. One glance at the second
lieutenant showed that he was most effectually silenced.

The front door of the car slammed open and shut, and a tall slim officer
with touches of silver about the edges of his dark hair, and a look of
command in his keen eyes came crisply down the aisle. The two young
lieutenants sat up with a jerk, and an undertone of oaths, and prepared
to salute as he passed them. The captain gave them a quick searching
glance as he saluted and went on to the next car.

The two jerked out salutes and settled back uneasily.

"That man gives me a pain!" said Harry Wainwright preparing to soothe his
ruffled spirits by a fresh cigarette.

"He thinks he's so doggone good himself that he has to pry into other
people's business and get them in wrong. It beats me how he ever got to
be a captain--a prim old fossil like him!"

"It might puzzle some people to know how you got your commission, Harry.
You're no fossil, of course, but you're no angel, either, and there are
some things in your career that aren't exactly laid down in military
manuals."

"Oh, my uncle Henry looked after my commission. It was a cinch! He thinks
the sun rises and sets in me, and he had no idea how he perjured himself
when he put me through. Why, I've got some of the biggest men in the
country for my backers, and wouldn't they lie awake at night if they knew!
Oh Boy! I thought I'd croak when I read some of those recommendations,
they fairly gushed with praise. You'd have died laughing, Bob, if you had
read them. They had such adjectives as 'estimable, moral, active,
efficient,' and one went so far as to say that I was equally distinguished
in college in scholarship and athletics! Some stretch of imagination, eh,
what?"

The two laughed loudly over this.

"And the best of it is," continued the first lieutenant, "the poor boob
believed it was all true!"

"But your college records, Harry, how could they get around those? Or
didn't they look you up?"

"Oh, mother fixed that all up. She sent the college a good fat check to
establish a new scholarship or something."

"Lucky dog!" sighed his friend. "Now I'm just the other way. I never try
to put anything over but I get caught, and nobody ever tried to cover up
my tracks for me when I got gay!"

"You worry too much, Bobby, and you never take a chance. Now _I_----"

The front door of the car opened and shut with a slam, and a tall young
fellow with a finely cut face and wearing workman's clothes entered. He
gave one quick glance down the car as though he was searching for
someone, and came on down the aisle. The sight of him stopped the boast
on young Wainwright's tongue, and an angry flush grew, and rolled up from
the top of his immaculate olive-drab collar to his close, military
hair-cut.

Slowly, deliberately, John Cameron walked down the aisle of the car
looking keenly from side to side, scanning each face alertly, until his
eyes lighted on the two young officers. At Bob Wetherill he merely
glanced knowingly, but he fixed his eyes on young Wainwright with a
steady, amused, contemptuous gaze as he came toward him; a gaze so
noticeable that it could not fail to arrest the attention of any who were
looking; and he finished the affront with a lingering turn of his head as
he passed by, and a slight accentuation of the amusement as he finally
lifted his gaze and passed on out of the rear door of the car. Those who
were sitting in the seats near the door might have heard the words: "And
they _killed_ such men as Lincoln!" muttered laughingly as the door
slammed shut behind him.

Lieutenant Wainwright uttered a low oath of imprecation and flung his
half spent cigarette on the floor angrily:

"Did you see that, Bob?" he complained furiously, "If I don't get that
fellow!"

"I certainly did! Are you going to stand for that? What's eating him,
anyway? Has he got it in for you again? But _he_ isn't a very easy fellow
to get, you know. He has the reputation----"

"Oh, I know! Yes, I guess anyhow _I know_!"

"Oh, I see! Licked you, too, once, did he?" laughed Wetherill, "what had
you been up to?"

"Oh, having some fun with his girl! At least I suppose she must have been
his girl the way he carried on about it. He said he didn't know her, but
of course that was all bluff. Then, too, I called his father a name he
didn't like and he lit into me again. Good night! I thought that was the
end of little Harry! I was sick for a week after he got through with me.
He certainly is some brute. Of course, I didn't realize what I was up
against at first or I'd have got the upper hand right away. I could have,
you know! I've been trained! But I didn't want to hurt the fellow and get
into the papers. You see, the circumstances were peculiar just then----"

"I see! You'd just applied for Officer's Training Camp?"

"Exactly, and you know you never can tell what rumor a person like that
can start. He's keen enough to see the advantage, of course, and follow
it up. Oh, he's got one coming to him all right!"

"Yes, he's keen all right. That's the trouble. It's hard to get him."

"Well, just wait. I've got him now. If I don't make him bite the dust! Ye
gods! When I think of the way he looks at me every time he sees me I
could skin him alive!"

"I fancy he'd be rather slippery to skin. I wouldn't like to try it,
Harry!"

"Well, but wait till you see where I've got him! He's in the draft. He
goes next week. And they're sending all those men to our camp! He'll be a
private, of course, and he'll have to _salute me_! Won't that gall him?"

"He won't do it! I know him, and _he won't do it_!"

"I'll take care that he does it all right! I'll put myself in his way and
_make_ him do it. And if he refuses I'll report him and get him in the
guard house. See? I can, you know. Then I guess he'll smile out of the
other side of his mouth!"

"He won't likely be in your company."

"That doesn't make any difference. I can get him into trouble if he
isn't, but I'll try to work it that he is if I can. I've got 'pull,' you
know, and I know how to 'work' my superiors!" he swaggered.

"That isn't very good policy," advised the other, "I've heard of men
picking off officers they didn't like when it came to battle."

"I'll take good care that he's in front of me on all such occasions!"

A sudden nudge from his companion made him look up, and there looking
sharply down at him, was the returning captain, and behind him walked
John Cameron still with that amused smile on his face. It was plain that
they had both heard his boast. His face crimsoned and he jerked out a
tardy salute, as the two passed on leaving him muttering imprecations
under his breath.

When the front door slammed behind the two Wainwright spoke in a low
shaken growl:

"Now what in thunder is that Captain La Rue going on to Bryne Haven for?
I thought, of course, he got off at Spring Heights. That's where his
mother lives. I'll bet he is going up to see Ruth Macdonald! You know
they're related. If he is, that knocks my plans all into a cocked hat.
I'd have to sit at attention all the evening, and I couldn't propose with
that cad around!"

"Better put it off then and come with me," soothed his friend. "Athalie
Britt will help you forget your troubles all right, and there's plenty of
time. You'll get another leave soon."

"How the dickens did John Cameron come to be on speaking terms with
Captain La Rue, I'd like to know?" mused Wainwright, paying no heed to
his friend.

"H'm! That does complicate matters for you some, doesn't it? Captain La
Rue is down at your camp, isn't he? Why, I suppose Cameron knew him up at
college, perhaps. Cap used to come up from the university every week last
winter to lecture at college."

Wainwright muttered a chain of choice expletives known only to men of his
kind.

"Forget it!" encouraged his friend slapping him vigorously on the
shoulder as the train drew into Bryne Haven. "Come off that grouch and
get busy! You're on leave, man! If you can't visit one woman there's
plenty more, and time enough to get married, too, before you go to
France. Marriage is only an incident, anyway. Why make such a fuss about
it?"

By the fitful glare of the station lights they could see that Cameron was
walking with the captain just ahead of them in the attitude of familiar
converse. The sight did not put Wainwright into a better humor.

At the great gate of the Macdonald estate Cameron and La Rue parted. They
could hear the last words of their conversation as La Rue swung into the
wide driveway and Cameron started on up the street:

"I'll attend to it the first thing in the morning, Cameron, and I'm glad
you spoke to me about it! I don't see any reason why it shouldn't go
through! I shall be personally gratified if we can make the arrangement.
Good-night and good luck to you!"

The two young officers halted at a discreet distance until John Cameron
had turned off to the right and walked away into the darkness. The
captain's quick step could be heard crunching along the gravel drive to
the Macdonald house.

"Well, I guess that about settles me for the night, Bobbie!" sighed
Wainwright. "Come on, let's pass the time away somehow. I'll stop at the
drug store to 'phone and make a date with Ruth for to-morrow morning.
Wonder where I can get a car to take her out? No, I don't want to go in
her car because she always wants to run it herself. When you're proposing
to a woman you don't want her to be absorbed in running a car. See?"

"I don't know. I haven't so much experience in that line as you have,
Harry, but I should think it might be inconvenient," laughed the other.

They went back to the station. A few minutes later Wainwright emerged
from the telephone booth in the drug store with a lugubrious expression.

"Doggone my luck! She's promised to go to church with that smug cousin of
hers, and she's busy all the rest of the day. But she's promised to give
me next Saturday if I can get off!" His face brightened with the thought.

"I guess I can make it. If I can't do anything else I'll tell 'em I'm
going to be married, and then I can make her rush things through,
perhaps. Girls are game for that sort of thing just now; it's in the air,
these war marriages. By George, I'm not sure but that's the best way to
work it after all. She's the kind of a girl that would do almost anything
to help you out of a fix that way, and I'll just tell her I had to say
that to get off and that I'll be court-martialed if they find out it
wasn't so. How about it?"

"I don't know, Harry. It's all right, of course, if you can get away with
it, but Ruth's a pretty bright girl and has a will of her own, you know.
But now, come on. It's getting late. What do you say if we get up a party
and run down to Atlantic City over Sunday, now that you're free? I know
those two girls would be tickled to death to go, especially Athalie.
She's a Westerner, you know, and has never seen the ocean."

"All right, come on, only you must promise there won't be any scrapes
that will get me into the papers and blow back to Bryne Haven. You know
there's a lot of Bryne Haven people go to Atlantic City this time of year
and I'm not going to have any stories started. _I'm going to marry Ruth
Macdonald!_"

"All right. Come on."




II


Ruth Macdonald drew up her little electric runabout sharply at the
crossing, as the station gates suddenly clanged down in her way, and sat
back with a look of annoyance on her face.

Michael of the crossing was so overcareful sometimes that it became
trying. She was sure there was plenty of time to cross before the down
train. She glanced at her tiny wrist watch and frowned. Why, it was fully
five minutes before the train was due! What could Michael mean, standing
there with his flag so importantly and that determined look upon his
face?

She glanced down the platform and was surprised to find a crowd. There
must be a special expected. What was it? A convention of some sort? Or a
picnic? It was late in the season for picnics, and not quite soon enough
for a college football game. Who were they, anyway? She looked them over
and was astonished to find people of every class, the workers, the
wealthy, the plain every-day men, women and children, all with a waiting
attitude and a strange seriousness upon them. As she looked closer she
saw tears on some faces and handkerchiefs everywhere in evidence. Had
some one died? Was this a funeral train they were awaiting? Strange she
had not heard!

Then the band suddenly burst out upon her with the familiar wail:

                  There's a long, long trail awinding,
                    Into the land of our dreams,--

and behind came the muffled tramping of feet not accustomed to marching
together.

Ruth suddenly sat up very straight and began to watch, an unfamiliar awe
upon her. This must be the first draft men just going away! Of course!
Why had she not thought of it at once. She had read about their going and
heard people mention it the last week, but it had not entered much into
her thoughts. She had not realized that it would be a ceremony of public
interest like this. She had no friends whom it would touch. The young men
of her circle had all taken warning in plenty of time and found
themselves a commission somewhere, two of them having settled up matters
but a few days before. She had thought of these draft men, when she had
thought of them at all, only when she saw mention of them in the
newspapers, and then as a lot of workingmen or farmers' boys who were
reluctant to leave their homes and had to be forced into patriotism in
this way. It had not occurred to her that there were many honorable young
men who would take this way of putting themselves at the disposal of
their country in her time of need, without attempting to feather a nice
little nest for themselves. Now she watched them seriously and found to
her astonishment that she knew many of them. There were three college
fellows in the front ranks whom she had met. She had danced with them and
been taken out to supper by them, and had a calling acquaintance with
their sisters. The sister of one stood on the sidewalk now in the common
crowd, quite near to the runabout, and seemed to have forgotten that
anybody was by. Her face was drenched with tears and her lips were
quivering. Behind her was a gray-haired woman with a skewey blouse and a
faded dark blue serge skirt too long for the prevailing fashion. The
tears were trickling down her cheeks also; and an old man with a crutch,
and a little round-eyed girl, seemed to belong to the party. The old
man's lips were set and he was looking at the boys with his heart in his
eyes.

Ruth shrank back not to intrude upon such open sorrow, and glanced at the
line again as they straggled down the road to the platform; fifty
serious, grave-eyed young men with determined mien and sorrow in the very
droop of their shoulders. One could see how they hated all this publicity
and display, this tense moment of farewell in the eyes of the town; and
yet how tender they felt toward those dear ones who had gathered thus to
do them honor as they went away to do their part in the great
world-struggle for liberty.

As she looked closer the girl saw they were not mature men as at first
glance they had seemed, but most of them mere boys. There was the boy
that mowed the Macdonald lawn, and the yellow-haired grocery boy. There
was the gas man and the nice young plumber who fixed the leak in the
water pipes the other day, and the clerk from the post office, and the
cashier from the bank! What made them look so old at first sight? Why, it
was as if sorrow and responsibility had suddenly been put upon them like
a garment that morning for a uniform, and they walked in the shadow of
the great sadness that had come upon the world. She understood that
perhaps even up to the very day before, they had most of them been merry,
careless boys; but now they were men, made so in a night by the horrible
_sin_ that had brought about this thing called War.

For the first time since the war began Ruth Macdonald had a vision of
what the war meant. She had been knitting, of course, with all the rest;
she had spent long mornings at the Red Cross rooms--she was on her way
there this very minute when Michael and the procession had interrupted
her course--she had made miles of surgical dressings and picked tons of
oakum. She had bade her men friends cheery good-byes when they went to
Officers' Training Camps, and with the other girls welcomed and admired
their uniforms when they came home on short furloughs, one by one winning
his stripes and commission. They were all men whom she had known in
society. They had wealth and position and found it easy to get into the
kind of thing that pleased them in the army or navy. The danger they were
facing seemed hardly a negligible quantity. It was the fashion to look on
it that way. Ruth had never thought about it before. She had even been
severe in her judgment of a few mothers who worried about their sons and
wanted to get them exempt in some way. But these stern loyal mothers who
stood in close ranks with heavy lines of sacrifice upon their faces,
tears on their cheeks, love and self-abnegation in their eyes, gave her a
new view of the world. These were the ones who would be in actual
poverty, some of them, without their boys, and whose lives would be empty
indeed when they went forth. Ruth Macdonald had never before realized the
suffering this war was causing individuals until she saw the faces of
those women with their sons and brothers and lovers; until she saw the
faces of the brave boys, for the moment all the rollicking lightness
gone, and only the pain of parting and the mists of the unknown future in
their eyes.

It came to the girl with a sudden pang that she was left out of all this.
That really it made little difference to her whether America was in the
war or not. Her life would go on just the same--a pleasant monotony of
bustle and amusement. There would be the same round of social affairs and
regular engagements, spiced with the excitement of war work and
occasional visiting uniforms. There was no one going forth from their
home to fight whose going would put the light of life out for her and
cause her to feel sad, beyond the ordinary superficial sadness for the
absence of one's playmates.

She liked them all, her friends, and shrank from having them in danger;
although it was splendid to have them doing something real at last. In
truth until this moment the danger had seemed so remote; the casualty
list of which people spoke with bated breath so much a thing of vast
unknown numbers, that it had scarcely come within her realization as yet.
But now she suddenly read the truth in the suffering eyes of these people
who were met to say good-bye, perhaps a last good-bye, to those who were
dearer than life to them. How would she, Ruth Macdonald, feel, if one of
those boys were her brother or lover? It was inconceivably dreadful.

The band blared on, and the familiar words insisted themselves upon her
unwilling mind:

                 There's a long, long night of waiting!

A sob at her right made her start and then turn away quickly from the
sight of a mother's grief as she clung to a frail daughter for support,
sobbing with utter abandon, while the daughter kept begging her to "be
calm for Tom's sake."

It was all horrible! Why had she gotten into this situation? Aunt Rhoda
would blame her for it. Aunt Rhoda would say it was too conspicuous,
right there in the front ranks! She put her hand on the starter and
glanced out, hoping to be able to back out and get away, but the road
behind was blocked several deep with cars, and the crowd had closed in
upon her and about her on every side. Retreat was impossible. However,
she noticed with relief that the matter of being conspicuous need not
trouble her. Nobody was looking her way. All eyes were turned in one
direction, toward that straggling, determined line that wound up from the
Borough Hall, past the Post Office and Bank to the station where the Home
Guards stood uniformed, in open silent ranks doing honor to the boys who
were going to fight for them.

Ruth's eyes went reluctantly back to the marching line again. Somehow it
struck her that they would not have seemed so forlorn if they had worn
new trig uniforms, instead of rusty varied civilian clothes. They seemed
like an ill-prepared sacrifice passing in review. Then suddenly her gaze
was riveted upon a single figure, the last man in the procession,
marching alone, with uplifted head and a look of self-abnegation on his
strong young face. All at once something sharp seemed to slash through
her soul and hold her with a long quiver of pain and she sat looking
straight ahead staring with a kind of wild frenzy at John Cameron walking
alone at the end of the line.

She remembered him in her youngest school days, the imp of the grammar
school, with a twinkle in his eye and an irrepressible grin on his handsome
face. Nothing had ever daunted him and no punishment had ever stopped his
mischief. He never studied his lessons, yet he always seemed to know enough
to carry him through, and would sometimes burst out with astonishing
knowledge where others failed. But there was always that joke on his lips
and that wide delightful grin that made him the worshipped-afar of all the
little girls. He had dropped a rose on her desk once as he lounged late and
laughing to his seat after recess, apparently unaware that his teacher was
calling him to order. She could feel the thrill of her little childish
heart now as she realized that he had given the rose to her. The next term
she was sent to a private school and saw no more of him save an occasional
glimpse in passing him on the street, but she never had forgotten him; and
now and then she had heard little scraps of news about him. He was working
his way through college. He was on the football team and the baseball team.
She knew vaguely that his father had died and their money was gone, but
beyond that she had no knowledge of him. They had drifted apart. He was not
of her world, and gossip about him seldom came her way. He had long ago
ceased to look at her when they happened to pass on the street. He
doubtless had forgotten her, or thought she had forgotten him. Or, it might
even be that he did not wish to presume upon an acquaintance begun when she
was too young to have a choice of whom should be her friends. But the
memory of that rose had never quite faded from her heart even though she
had been but seven, and always she had looked after him when she chanced to
see him on the street with a kind of admiration and wonder. Now suddenly
she saw him in another light. The laugh was gone from his lips and the
twinkle from his eyes. He looked as he had looked the day he fought Chuck
Woodcock for tying a string across the sidewalk and tripping up the little
girls on the way to school. It came to her like a revelation that he was
going forth now in just such a way to fight the world-foe. In a way he was
going to fight for her. To make the world a safe place for girls such as
she! All the terrible stories of Belgium flashed across her mind, and she
was lifted on a great wave of gratitude to this boy friend of her babyhood
for going out to defend her!

All the rest of the straggling line of draft men were going out for the
same purpose perhaps, but it did not occur to her that they were anything
to her until she saw John Cameron. All those friends of her own world who
were training for officers, they, too, were going to fight in the same
way to defend the world, but she had not thought of it in that way
before. It took a sight of John Cameron's high bearing and serious face
to bring the knowledge to her mind.

She thought no longer of trying to get away. She seemed held to the spot
by a new insight into life. She could not take her eyes from the face of
the young man. She forgot that she was staying, forgot that she was
staring. She could no more control the swelling thoughts of horror that
surged over her and took possession of her than she could have controlled
a mob if it had suddenly swept down upon her.

The gates presently lifted silently to let the little procession pass
over to her side of the tracks, and within a few short minutes the
special train that was to bear the men away to camp came rattling up,
laden with other victims of the chance that sent some men on ahead to be
pioneers in the camps.

These were a noisy jolly bunch. Perhaps, having had their own sad
partings they were only trying to brace themselves against the scenes of
other partings through which they must pass all the way along the line.
They must be reminded of their own mothers and sisters and sweethearts.
Something of this Ruth Macdonald seemed to define to herself as, startled
and annoyed by the clamor of the strangers in the midst of the sacredness
of the moment, she turned to look at the crowding heads in the car
windows and caught the eye of an irrepressible youth:

"Think of me over there!" he shouted, waving a flippant hand and
twinkling his eyes at the beautiful girl in her car.

Another time Ruth would have resented such familiarity, but now something
touched her spirit with an inexpressible pity, and she let a tiny ripple
of a smile pass over her lovely face as her eyes traveled on down the
platform in search of the tall form of John Cameron. In the moment of the
oncoming train she had somehow lost sight of him. Ah! There he was
stooping over a little white haired woman, taking her tenderly in his
arms to kiss her. The girl's eyes lingered on him. His whole attitude was
such a revelation of the man the rollicking boy had become. It seemed to
pleasantly round out her thought of him.

The whistle sounded, the drafted men gave one last wringing hand-clasp,
one last look, and sprang on board.

John Cameron was the last to board the train. He stood on the lower step
of the last car as it began to move slowly. His hat was lifted, and he
stood with slightly lifted chin and eyes that looked as if they had
sounded the depths of all sadness and surrendered himself to whatever had
been decreed. There was settled sorrow in all the lines of his fine face.
Ruth was startled by the change in it; by the look of the boy in the man.
Had the war done that for him just in one short summer? Had it done that
for the thousands who were going to fight for her? And she was sitting in
her luxurious car with a bundle of wool at her feet, and presuming to
bear her part by mere knitting! Poor little useless woman that she was! A
thing to send a man forth from everything he counted dear or wanted to
do, into suffering and hardship--and _death_--perhaps! She shuddered as
she watched his face with its strong uplifted look, and its unutterable
sorrow. She had not thought he could look like that! Oh, he would be gay
to-morrow, like the rest, of course, with his merry jest and his
contagious grin, and making light of the serious business of war! He
would not be the boy he used to be without the ability to do that. But
she would never forget how he had looked in this farewell minute while he
was gazing his last on the life of his boyhood and being borne away into
a dubious future. She felt a hopelessly yearning, as if, had there been
time, she would have liked to have told him how much she appreciated his
doing this great deed for her and for all her sisters!

Has it ever been fully explained why the eyes of one person looking hard
across a crowd will draw the eyes of another?

The train had slipped along ten feet or more and was gaining speed when
John Cameron's eyes met those of Ruth Macdonald, and her vivid speaking
face flashed its message to his soul. A pleased wonder sprang into his
eyes, a question as his glance lingered, held by the tumult in her face,
and the unmistakable personality of her glance. Then his face lit up with
its old smile, graver, oh, much! and more deferential than it used to be,
with a certain courtliness in it that spoke of maturity of spirit. He
lifted his hat a little higher and waved it just a trifle in recognition
of her greeting, wondering in sudden confusion if he were really not
mistaken after all and had perhaps been appropriating a farewell that
belonged to someone else; then amazed and pleased at the flutter of her
handkerchief in reply.

The train was moving rapidly now in the midst of a deep throaty cheer
that sounded more like a sob, and still he stood on that bottom step with
his hat lifted and let his eyes linger on the slender girlish figure in
the car, with the morning sun glinting across her red-gold hair, and the
beautiful soft rose color in her cheeks.

As the train swept past the little shelter shed he bethought himself and
turned a farewell tender smile on the white-haired woman who stood
watching him through a mist of tears. Then his eyes went back for one
last glimpse of the girl; and so he flashed out of sight around the
curve.




III


It had taken only a short time after all. The crowd drowned its cheer in
one deep gasp of silence and broke up tearfully into little groups
beginning to melt away at the sound of Michael ringing up the gates, and
telling the cars and wagons to hurry that it was almost time for the
up-train.

Ruth Macdonald started her car and tried to bring her senses back to
their normal calm wondering what had happened to her and why there was
such an inexpressible mingling of loss and pleasure in her heart.

The way at first was intricate with congestion of traffic and Ruth was
obliged to go slowly. As the road cleared before her she was about to
glide forward and make up for lost time. Suddenly a bewildered little
woman with white hair darted in front of the car, hesitated, drew back,
came on again. Ruth stopped the car shortly, much shaken with the swift
vision of catastrophe, and the sudden recognition of the woman. It was
the same one who had been with John Cameron.

"Oh, I'm so sorry I startled you!" she called pleasantly, leaning out of
the car. "Won't you get in, please, and let me take you home?"

The woman looked up and there were great tears in her eyes. It was plain
why she had not seen where she was going.

"Thank you, no, I couldn't!" she said with a choke in her voice and
another blur of tears, "I--you see--I want to get away--I've been seeing
off my boy!"

"I know!" said Ruth with quick sympathy, "I saw. And you want to get home
quickly and cry. I feel that way myself. But you see I didn't have
anybody there and I'd like to do a little something just to be in it.
Won't you please get in? You'll get home sooner if I take you; and see!
We're blocking the way!"

The woman cast a frightened glance about and assented:

"Of course. I didn't realize!" she said climbing awkwardly in and sitting
bolt upright as uncomfortable as could be in the luxurious car beside the
girl. It was all too plain she did not wish to be there.

Ruth manoeuvred her car quickly out of the crowd and into a side street,
gliding from there to the avenue. She did not speak until they had left
the melting crowd well behind them. Then she turned timidly to the woman:

"You--are--his--_mother_?"

She spoke the words hesitatingly as if she feared to touch a wound. The
woman's eyes suddenly filled again and a curious little quiver came on
the strong chin.

"Yes," she tried to say and smothered the word in her handkerchief
pressed quickly to her lips in an effort to control them.

Ruth laid a cool little touch on the woman's other hand that lay in her
lap:

"Please forgive me!" she said, "I wasn't sure. I know it must be
awful,--cruel--for you!"

"He--is all I have left!" the woman breathed with a quick controlled
gasp, "but, of course--it was--right that he should go!"

She set her lips more firmly and blinked off at the blur of pretty homes
on her right without seeing any of them.

"He would have gone sooner, only he thought he ought not to leave me till
he had to," she said with another proud little quiver in her voice, as if
having once spoken she must go on and say more, "I kept telling him I
would get on all right--but he always was so careful of me--ever since
his father died!"

"Of course!" said Ruth tenderly turning her face away to struggle with a
strange smarting sensation in her own eyes and throat. Then in a low
voice she added:

"I knew him, you know. I used to go to the same school with him when I
was a little bit of a girl."

The woman looked up with a quick searching glance and brushed the tears
away firmly.

"Why, aren't you Ruth Macdonald? _Miss_ Macdonald, I mean--excuse me! You
live in the big house on the hill, don't you?"

"Yes, I'm Ruth Macdonald. Please don't call me Miss. I'm only nineteen
and I still answer to my little girl name," Ruth answered with a charming
smile.

The woman's gaze softened.

"I didn't know John knew you," she said speculatively. "He never
mentioned----"

"Of course not!" said the girl anticipating, "he wouldn't. It was a long
time ago when I was seven and I doubt if he remembers me any more. They
took me out of the public school the next year and sent me to St. Mary's
for which I've never quite forgiven them, for I'm sure I should have got
on much faster at the public school and I loved it. But I've not
forgotten the good times I had there, and John was always good to the
little girls. We all liked him. I haven't seen him much lately, but I
should think he would have grown to be just what you say he is. He looks
that way."

Again the woman's eyes searched her face, as if she questioned the
sincerity of her words; then apparently satisfied she turned away with a
sigh:

"I'd have liked him to know a girl like you," she said wistfully.

"Thank you!" said Ruth brightly, "that sounds like a real compliment.
Perhaps we shall know each other yet some day if fortune favors us. I'm
quite sure he's worth knowing."

"Oh, he is!" said the little mother, her tears brimming over again and
flowing down her dismayed cheeks, "he's quite worth the best society
there is, but I haven't been able to manage a lot of things for him. It
hasn't been always easy to get along since his father died. Something
happened to our money. But anyway, he got through college!" with a flash
of triumph in her eyes.

"Wasn't that fine!" said Ruth with sparkling eyes, "I'm sure he's worth a
lot more than some of the fellows who have always had every whim
gratified. Now, which street? You'll have to tell me. I'm ashamed to say
I don't know this part of town very well. Isn't it pretty down here? This
house? What a wonderful clematis! I never saw such a wealth of bloom."

"Yes, John planted that and fussed over it," said his mother with pride
as she slipped unaccustomedly out of the car to the sidewalk. "I'm very
glad to have met you and it was most kind of you to bring me home. To
tell the truth"--with a roguish smile that reminded Ruth of her son's
grin--"I was so weak and trembling with saying good-bye and trying to
keep up so John wouldn't know it, that I didn't know how I was to get
home. Though I'm afraid I was a bit discourteous. I couldn't bear the
thought of talking to a stranger just then. But you haven't been like a
stranger--knowing him, and all----"

"Oh, thank you!" said Ruth, "it's been so pleasant. Do you know, I don't
believe I ever realized what an awful thing the war is till I saw those
people down at the station this morning saying good-bye. I never realized
either what a useless thing I am. I haven't even anybody very dear to
send. I can only knit."

"Well, that's a good deal. Some of us haven't time to do that. I never
have a minute."

"You don't need to, you've given your son," said Ruth flashing a glance
of glorified understanding at the woman.

A beautiful smile came out on the tired sorrowful face.

"Yes, I've given him," she said, "but I'm hoping God will give him back
again some day. Do you think that's too much to hope. He is such a good
boy!"

"Of course not," said Ruth sharply with a sudden sting of apprehension in
her soul. And then she remembered that she had no very intimate
acquaintance with God. She wished she might be on speaking terms, at
least, and she would go and present a plea for this lonely woman. If it
were only Captain La Rue, her favorite cousin, or even the President, she
might consider it. But God! She shuddered. Didn't God let this awful war
be? Why did He do it? She had never thought much about God before.

"I wish you would let me come to see you sometime and take you for
another ride," she said sweetly.

"It would be beautiful!" said the older woman, "if you would care to take
the time from your own friends."

"I would love to have you for one of my friends," said the girl
gracefully.

The woman smiled wistfully.

"I'm only here holidays and evenings," she conceded, "I'm doing some
government work now."

"I shall come," said Ruth brightly. "I've enjoyed you ever so much." Then
she started her car and whirled away into the sunshine.

"She won't come, of course," said the woman to herself as she stood
looking mournfully after the car, reluctant to go into the empty house.
"I wish she would! Isn't she just like a flower! How wonderful it would
be if things had been different, and there hadn't been any war, and my
boy could have had her for a friend! Oh!"

                    *       *       *       *       *

Down at the Club House the women waited for the fair young member who had
charge of the wool. They rallied her joyously as she hurried in, suddenly
aware that she had kept them all waiting.

"I saw her in the crowd at the station this morning," called out Mrs.
Pryor, a large placid tease with a twinkle in her eye. "She was picking
out the handsomest man for the next sweater she knits. Which one did you
choose, Miss Ruth? Tell us. Are you going to write him a letter and stick
it in the toe of his sock?"

The annoyed color swept into Ruth's face, but she paid no other heed as
she went about her morning duties, preparing the wool to give out. A
thought had stolen into her heart that made a tumult there and would not
bear turning over even in her mind in the presence of all these curious
people. She put it resolutely by as she taught newcomers how to turn the
heel of a sock, but now and then it crept back again and was the cause of
her dropping an occasional stitch.

Dottie Wetherill came to find out what was the matter with her sock, and
to giggle and gurgle about her brother Bob and his friends. Bob, it
appeared, was going to bring five officers home with him next week end
and they were to have a dance Saturday night. Of course Ruth must come.
Bob was soon to get his _first_ lieutenant's commission. There had been a
mistake, of course, or he would have had it before this, some favoritism
shown; but now Bob had what they called a "pull," and things were going
to be all right for him. Bob said you couldn't get anywhere without a
"pull." And didn't Ruth think Bob looked perfectly fine in his uniform?

It annoyed Ruth to hear such talk and she tried to make it plain to
Dottie that she was mistaken about "pull." There was no such thing. It
was all imagination. She knew, for her cousin, Captain La Rue, was very
close to the Government and he had told her so. He said that real worth
was always recognized, and that it didn't make any difference where it
was found or who your friends were. It mattered _what you were_.

She fixed Dottie's sock and moved on to the wool table to get ready an
allotment for some of the ladies to take home.

Mrs. Wainwright bustled in, large and florid and well groomed, with a
bunch of photographer's proofs of her son Harry in his uniform. She
called loudly for Ruth to come and inspect them. There were some twenty
or more poses, each one seemingly fatter, more pompous and conceited
looking than the last. She stated in boisterous good humor that Harry
particularly wanted Ruth's opinion before he gave the order. At that Mrs.
Pryor bent her head to her neighbor and nodded meaningly, as if a certain
matter of discussion were settled now beyond all question. Ruth caught
the look and its meaning and the color flooded her face once more, much
to her annoyance. She wondered angrily if she would never be able to stop
that childish habit of blushing, and why it annoyed her so very much this
morning to have her name coupled with that of Harry Wainwright. He was
her old friend and playmate, having lived next door to her all her life,
and it was but natural when everybody was sweethearting and getting
married, that people should speak of her and wonder whether there might
be anything more to their relationship than mere friendship. Still it
annoyed her. Continually as she turned the pages from one fat smug
Wainwright countenance to another, she saw in a mist the face of another
man, with uplifted head and sorrowful eyes. She wondered if when the time
came for Harry Wainwright to go he would have aught of the vision, and
aught of the holiness of sorrow that had shown in that other face.

She handed the proofs back to the mother, so like her son in her ample
blandness, and wondered if Mrs. Cameron would have a picture of her son
in his uniform, fine and large and lifelike as these were.

She interrupted her thoughts to hear Mrs. Wainwright's clarion voice
lifted in parting from the door of the Club House on her way back to her
car:

"Well, good-bye, Ruth dear. Don't hesitate to let me know if you'd like
to have either of the other two large ones for your own 'specials,' you
know. I shan't mind changing the order a bit. Harry said you were to have
as many as you wanted. I'll hold the proofs for a day or two and let you
think it over."

Ruth lifted her eyes to see the gaze of every woman in the room upon her,
and for a moment she felt as if she almost hated poor fat doting Mamma
Wainwright. Then the humorous side of the moment came to help her and her
face blossomed into a smile as she jauntily replied:

"Oh, no, please don't bother, Mrs. Wainwright. I'm not going to paper the
wall with them. I have other friends, you know. I think your choice was
the best of them all."

Then as gaily as if she were not raging within her soul she turned to
help poor Dottie Wetherill who was hopelessly muddled about turning her
heel.

Dottie chattered on above the turmoil of her soul, and her words were as
tiny April showers sizzling on a red hot cannon. By and by she picked up
Dottie's dropped stitches. After all, what did such things matter when
there was _war_ and men were giving their _lives_!

"And Bob says he doubts if they ever get to France. He says he thinks the
war will be over before half the men get trained. He says, for his part,
he'd like the trip over after the submarines have been put out of
business. It would be something to tell about, don't you know? But Bob
thinks the war will be over soon. Don't you think so, Ruth?"

"I don't know what I think," said Ruth exasperated at the little
prattler. It seemed so awful for a girl with brains--or hadn't she
brains?--to chatter on interminably in that inane fashion about a matter
of such awful portent. And yet perhaps the child was only trying to cover
up her fears, for she all too evidently worshipped her brother.

Ruth was glad when at last the morning was over and one by one the women
gathered their belongings together and went home. She stayed longer than
the rest to put the work in order. When they were all gone she drove
around by the way of the post office and asked the old post master who
had been there for twenty years and knew everybody, if he could tell her
the address of the boys who had gone to camp that morning. He wrote it
down and she tucked it in her blouse saying she thought the Red Cross
would be sending them something soon. Then she drove thoughtfully away to
her beautiful sheltered home, where the thought of war hardly dared to
enter yet in any but a playful form. But somehow everything was changed
within the heart of Ruth Macdonald and she looked about on all the
familiar places with new eyes. What right had she to be living here in
all this luxury while over there men were dying every day that she might
live?




IV


The sun shone blindly over the broad dusty drill-field. The men marched
and wheeled, about-faced and counter-marched in their new olive-drab
uniforms and thought of home--those that had any homes to think about.
Some who did not thought of a home that might have been if this war had
not happened.

There were times when their souls could rise to the great occasion and
their enthusiasm against the foe could carry them to all lengths of
joyful sacrifice, but this was not one of the times. It was a breathless
Indian summer morning, and the dust was inches thick. It rose like a soft
yellow mist over the mushroom city of forty thousand men, brought into
being at the command of a Nation's leader. Dust lay like a fine yellow
powder over everything. An approaching company looked like a cloud as it
drew near. One could scarcely see the men near by for the cloud of yellow
dust everywhere.

The water was bad this morning when every man was thirsty. It had been
boiled for safety and was served warm and tasted of disinfectants. The
breakfast had been oatmeal and salty bacon swimming in congealed grease.
The "boy" in the soldier's body was very low indeed that morning. The
"man" with his disillusioned eyes had come to the front. Of course this
was nothing like the hardships they would have to endure later, but it
was enough for the present to their unaccustomed minds, and harder
because they were doing nothing that seemed worth while--just marching
about and doing sordid duties when they were all eager for the fray and
to have it over with. They had begun to see that they were going to have
to learn to wait and be patient, to obey blindly; they--who never had
brooked commands from any one, most of them, not even from their own
parents. They had been free as air, and they had never been tied down to
certain company. Here they were all mixed up, college men and foreign
laborers, rich and poor, cultured and coarse, clean and defiled, and it
went pretty hard with them all. They had come, a bundle of prejudices and
wills, and they had first to learn that every prejudice they had been
born with or cultivated, must be given up or laid aside. They were not
their own. They belonged to a great machine. The great perfect conception
of the army as a whole had not yet dawned upon them. They were occupied
with unpleasant details in the first experimental stages. At first the
discomforts seemed to rise and obliterate even the great object for which
they had come, and discontent sat upon their faces.

Off beyond the drill-field whichever way they looked, there were barracks
the color of the dust, and long stark roads, new and rough, the color of
the barracks, with jitneys and trucks and men like ants crawling
furiously back and forth upon them all animated by the same great
necessity that had brought the men here. Even the sky seemed yellow like
the dust. The trees were gone except at the edges of the camp, cut down
to make way for more barracks, in even ranks like men.

Out beyond the barracks mimic trenches were being dug, and puppets hung
in long lines for mock enemies. There were skeleton bridges to cross,
walls to scale, embankments to jump over, and all, everything, was that
awful olive-drab color till the souls of the new-made soldiers cried out
within them for a touch of scarlet or green or blue to relieve the dreary
monotony. Sweat and dust and grime, weariness, homesickness, humbled
pride, these were the tales of the first days of those men gathered from
all quarters who were pioneers in the first camps.

Corporal Cameron marched his awkward squad back and forth, through all
the various manoeuvres, again and again, giving his orders in short,
sharp tones, his face set, his heart tortured with the thought of the
long months and years of this that might be before him. The world seemed
most unfriendly to him these days. Not that it had ever been over kind,
yet always before his native wit and happy temperament had been able to
buoy him up and carry him through hopefully. Now, however, hope seemed
gone. This war might last till he was too old to carry out any of his
dreams and pull himself out of the place where fortune had dropped him.
Gradually one thought had been shaping itself clearly out of the days he
had spent in camp. This life on earth was not all of existence. There
must be something bigger beyond. It wasn't sane and sensible to think
that any God would allow such waste of humanity as to let some suffer all
the way through with nothing beyond to compensate. There was a meaning to
the suffering. There must be. It must be a preparation for something
beyond, infinitely better and more worth while. What was it and how
should he learn the meaning of his own particular bit?

John Cameron had never thought about religion before in his life. He had
believed in a general way in a God, or thought he believed, and that a
book called the Bible told about Him and was the authentic place to learn
how to be good. The doubts of the age had not touched him because he had
never had any interest in them. In the ordinary course of events he might
never have thought about them in relation to himself until he came to
die--perhaps not then. In college he had been too much engrossed with
other things to listen to the arguments, or to be influenced by the
general atmosphere of unbelief. He had been a boy whose inner thoughts
were kept under lock and key, and who had lived his heart life absolutely
alone, although his rich wit and bubbling merriment had made him a
general favorite where pure fun among the fellows was going. He loved to
"rough house" as he called it, and his boyish pranks had always been the
talk of the town, the envied of the little boys; but no one knew his
real, serious thoughts. Not even his mother, strong and self-repressed
like himself, had known how to get down beneath the surface and commune
with him. Perhaps she was afraid or shy.

Now that he was really alone among all this mob of men of all sorts and
conditions, he had retired more and more into the inner sanctuary of self
and tried to think out the meaning of life. From the chaos that reigned
in his mind he presently selected a few things that he called "facts"
from which to work. These were "God, Hereafter, Death." These things he
must reckon with. He had been working on a wrong hypothesis all his life.
He had been trying to live for this world as if it were the end and aim
of existence, and now this war had come and this world had suddenly
melted into chaos. It appeared that he and thousands of others must
probably give up their part in this world before they had hardly tried
it, if they would set things right again for those that should come
after. But, even if he had lived out his ordinary years in peace and
success, and had all that life could give him, it would not have lasted
long, seventy years or so, and what were they after they were past? No,
there was something beyond or it all wouldn't have been made--this
universe with the carefully thought out details working harmoniously one
with another. It wouldn't have been worth while otherwise. There would
have been no reason for a heart life.

There were boys and men in the army who thought otherwise. Who had
accepted this life as being all. Among these were the ones who when they
found they were taken in the draft and must go to camp, had spent their
last three weeks of freedom drunk because they wanted to get all the
"fun" they could out of life that was left to them. They were the men who
were plunging into all the sin they could find before they went away to
fight because they felt they had but a little time to live and what did
it matter? But John Cameron was not one of these. His soul would not let
him alone until he had thought it all out, and he had come thus far with
these three facts, "God, Death, A Life Hereafter." He turned these over
in his mind for days and then he changed their order, "_Death, A Life
Hereafter, God_."

Death was the grim person he was going forth to meet one of these days or
months on the field of France or Italy, or somewhere "over there." He was
not to wait for Death to come and get him as had been the old order. This
was WAR and he was going out to challenge Death. He was convinced that
whether Death was a servant of God or the Devil, in some way it would
make a difference with his own personal life hereafter, how he met Death.
He was not satisfied with just meeting Death bravely, with the ardor of
patriotism in his breast, as he heard so many about him talk in these
days. That was well so far as it went, but it did not solve the mystery
of the future life nor make him sure how he would stand in that other
world to which Death stood ready to escort him presently. Death might be
victor over his body, but he wanted to be sure that Death should not also
kill that something within him which he felt must live forever. He turned
it over for days and came to the conclusion that the only one who could
help him was God. God was the beginning of it all. If there was a God He
must be available to help a soul in a time like this. There must be a way
to find God and get the secret of life, and so be ready to meet Death
that Death should not conquer anything but the body. How could one find
God? Had anybody ever found Him? Did anyone really _think_ they had found
Him? These were questions that beat in upon his soul day after day as he
drilled his men and went through the long hard hours of discipline, or
lay upon his straw tick at night while a hundred and fifty other men
about him slept.

His mother's secret attempts at religion had been too feeble and too
hidden in her own breast to have made much of an impression upon him. She
had only _hoped_ her faith was founded upon a rock. She had not _known_.
And so her buffeted soul had never given evidence to her son of hidden
holy refuge where he might flee with her in time of need.

Now and then the vision of a girl blurred across his thoughts
uncertainly, like a bright moth hovering in the distance whose shadow
fell across his dusty path. But it was far away and vague, and only a
glance in her eyes belonged to him. She was not of his world.

He looked up to the yellow sky through the yellow dust, and his soul
cried out to find the way to God before he had to meet Death, but the
heavens seemed like molten brass. Not that he was afraid of death with a
physical fear, but that his soul recoiled from being conquered by it and
he felt convinced that there was a way to meet it with a smile of
assurance if only he could find it out. He had read that people had met
it that way. Was it all their imagination? The mere illusion of a
fanatical brain? Well, he would try to find out God. He would put himself
in the places where God ought to be, and when he saw any indication that
God was there he would cry out until he made God hear him!

The day he came to that conclusion was Sunday and he went over to the
Y.M.C.A. Auditorium. They were having a Mary Pickford moving picture show
there. If he had happened to go at any time during the morning he might
have heard some fine sermons and perhaps have found the right man to help
him, but this was evening and the men were being amused.

He stood for a few moments and watched the pretty show. The sunlight on
Mary's beautiful hair, as it fell glimmering through the trees in the
picture reminded him of the red-gold lights on Ruth Macdonald's hair the
morning he left home, and with a sigh he turned away and walked to the
edge of camp where the woods were still standing.

Alone he looked up to the starry sky. Amusement was not what he wanted
now. He was in search of something vague and great that would satisfy,
and give him a reason for being and suffering and dying perhaps. He
called it God because he had no other name for it. Red-gold hair might be
for others but not for him. He might not take it where he would and he
would not take it where it lay easy to get. If he had been in the same
class with some other fellows he knew he would have wasted no time on
follies. He would have gone for the very highest, finest woman. But
there! What was the use! Besides, even if he had been--and he had
had--every joy of life here was but a passing show and must sometime come
to an end. And at the end would be this old problem. Sometime he would
have had to realize it, even if war had not come and brought the
revelation prematurely. What was it that he wanted? How could he find out
how to die? Where was God?

But the stars were high and cold and gave no answer, and the whispering
leaves, although they soothed him, sighed and gave no help.

The feeling was still with him next morning when the mail was
distributed. There would be nothing for him. His mother had written her
weekly letter and it had reached him the day before. He could expect
nothing for several days now. Other men were getting sheaves of letters.
How friendless he seemed among them all. One had a great chocolate cake
that a girl had sent him and the others were crowding around to get a
bit. It was doubtful if the laughing owner got more than a bite himself.
He might have been one of the group if he had chosen. They all liked him
well enough, although they knew him very little as yet, for he had kept
much to himself. But he turned sharply away from them and went out.
Somehow he was not in the mood for fun. He felt he must be growing morbid
but he could not throw it off that morning. It all seemed so hopeless,
the things he had tried to do in life and the slow progress he had made
upward; and now to have it all blocked by war!

None of the other fellows ever dreamed that he was lonely, big, husky,
handsome fellow that he was, with a continuous joke on his lips for those
he had chosen as associates, with an arm of iron and a jaw that set like
steel, grim and unmistakably brave. The awkward squad as they wrathfully
obeyed his stern orders would have told you he had no heart, the way he
worked them, and would not have believed that he was just plain homesick
and lonesome for some one to care for him.

He was not hungry that day when the dinner call came, and flung himself
down under a scrub oak outside the barracks while the others rushed in
with their mess kits ready for beans or whatever was provided for them.
He was glad that they were gone, glad that he might have the luxury of
being miserable all alone for a few minutes. He felt strangely as if he
were going to cry, and yet he didn't know what about. Perhaps he was
going to be sick. That would be horrible down in that half finished
hospital with hardly any equipment yet! He must brace up and put an end
to such softness. It was all in the idea anyway.

Then a great hand came down upon his shoulder with a mighty slap and he
flung himself bolt upright with a frown to find his comrade whose bunk
was next to his in the barracks. He towered over Cameron polishing his
tin plate with a vigor.

"What's the matter with you, you boob? There's roast beef and its good.
Cooky saved a piece for you. I told him you'd come. Go in and get it
quick! There's a letter for you, too, in the office. I'd have brought it
only I was afraid I would miss you. Here, take my mess kit and hurry!
There's some cracker-jack pickles, too, little sweet ones! Step lively,
or some one will swipe them all!"

Cameron arose, accepted his friend's dishes and sauntered into the mess
hall. The letter couldn't be very important. His mother had no time to
write again soon, and there was no one else. It was likely an
advertisement or a formal greeting from some of the organizations at
home. They did that about fortnightly, the Red Cross, the Woman's Club,
The Emergency Aid, The Fire Company. It was kind in them but he wasn't
keen about it just then. It could wait until he got his dinner. They
didn't have roast beef every day, and now that he thought about it he was
hungry.

He almost forgot the letter after dinner until a comrade reminded him,
handing over a thick delicately scented envelope with a silver crest on
the back. The boys got off their kidding about "the girl he'd left behind
him" and he answered with his old good-natured grin that made them love
him, letting them think he had all kinds of girls, for the dinner had
somewhat restored his spirits, but he crumpled the letter into his pocket
and got away into the woods to read it.

Deliberately he walked down the yellow road, up over the hill by the
signal corps tents, across Wig-Wag Park to the woods beyond, and sat down
on a log with his letter. He told himself that it was likely one of those
fool letters the fellows were getting all the time from silly girls who
were uniform-crazy. He wouldn't answer it, of course, and he felt a kind
of contempt with himself for being weak enough to read it even to satisfy
his curiosity.

Then he tore open the envelope half angrily and a faint whiff of violets
floated out to him. Over his head a meadow lark trilled a long sweet
measure, and glad surprise suddenly entered into his soul.




V


The letter was written in a fine beautiful hand and even before he saw
the silver monogram at the top, he knew who was the writer, though he did
not even remember to have seen the writing before:

MY DEAR FRIEND:

I have hesitated a long time before writing because I do not know that I
have the right to call you a friend, or even an acquaintance in the
commonly accepted sense of that term. It is so long since you and I went
to school together, and we have been so widely separated since then that
perhaps you do not even remember me, and may consider my letter an
intrusion. I hope not, for I should hate to rank with the girls who are
writing to strangers under the license of mistaken patriotism.

My reason for writing you is that a good many years ago you did something
very nice and kind for me one day, in fact you helped me twice, although
I don't suppose you knew it. Then the other day, when you were going to
camp and I sat in my car and watched you, it suddenly came over me that
you were doing it again; this time a great big wonderful thing for me;
and doing it just as quietly and inconsequentially as you did it before;
and all at once I realized how splendid it was and wanted to thank you.

It came over me, too, that I had never thanked you for the other times,
and very likely you never dreamed that you had done anything at all.

You see I was only a little girl, very much frightened, because Chuck
Woodcock had teased me about my curls and said that he was going to catch
me and cut them off, and send me home to my aunt that way, and she would
turn me out of the house. He had been frightening me for several days, so
that I was afraid to go to school alone, and yet I would not tell my aunt
because I was afraid she would take me away from the Public School and
send me to a Private School which I did not want. But that day I had seen
Chuck Woodcock steal in behind the hedge, ahead of the girls. The others
were ahead of me and I was all out of breath--running to catch up because
I was afraid to pass him alone; and just as I got near two of them,--Mary
Wurts and Caroline Meadows, you remember them, don't you?--they gave a
scream and pitched headlong on the sidewalk. They had tripped over a wire
he had stretched from the tree to the hedge. I stopped short and got
behind a tree, and I remember how the tears felt in my throat, but I was
afraid to let them out because Chuck would call me a crybaby and I hated
that. And just then you came along behind me and jumped through the hedge
and caught Chuck and gave him an awful whipping. "Licking" I believe we
called it then. I remember how condemned I felt as I ran by the hedge and
knew in my heart that I was glad you were hurting him because he had been
so cruel to me. He used to pull my curls whenever he sat behind me in
recitation.

I remember you came in to school late with your hair all mussed up
beautifully, and a big tear in your coat, and a streak of mud on your
face. I was so worried lest the teacher would find out you had been
fighting and make you stay after school. Because you see I knew in my
heart that you had been winning a battle for me, and if anybody had to
stay after school I wished it could be me because of what you had done
for me. But you came in laughing as you always did, and looking as if
nothing in the world unusual had happened, and when you passed my desk
you threw before me the loveliest pink rose bud I ever saw. That was the
second thing you did for me.

Perhaps you won't understand how nice that was, either, for you see you
didn't know how unhappy I had been. The girls hadn't been very friendly
with me. They told me I was "stuck up," and they said I was too young to
be in their classes anyway and ought to go to Kindergarten. It was all
very hard for me because I longed to be big and have them for my friends.
I was very lonely in that great big house with only my aunt and
grandfather for company. But the girls wouldn't be friends at all until
they saw you give me that rose, and that turned the tide. They were crazy
about you, every one of them, and, they made up to me after that and told
me their secrets and shared their lunch and we had great times. And it
was all because you gave me the rose that day. The rose itself was lovely
and I was tremendously happy over it for its own sake, but it meant a
whole lot to me besides, and opened the little world of school to my
longing feet. I always wanted to thank you for it, but you looked as if
you didn't want me to, so I never dared; and lately I wasn't quite sure
you knew me, because you never looked my way any more.

But when I saw you standing on the platform the other day with the other
drafted men, it all came over me how you were giving up the life you had
planned to go out and fight for me and other girls like me. I hadn't
thought of the war that way before, although, of course, I had heard that
thought expressed in speeches; but it never struck into my heart until I
saw the look on your face. It was a kind of "knightliness," if there is
such a word, and when I thought about it I realized it was the very same
look you had worn when you burst through the hedge after Chuck Woodcock,
and again when you came back and threw that rose on my desk. Although,
you had a big, broad boy's-grin on your face then, and were chewing gum I
remember quite distinctly; and the other day you looked so serious and
sorry as if it meant a great deal to you to go, but you were giving up
everything gladly without even thinking of hesitating. The look on your
face was a man's look, not a boy's.

It has meant so much to me to realize this last great thing that you are
doing for me and for the other girls of our country that I had to write
and tell you how much I appreciate it.

I have been wondering whether some one has been knitting you a sweater
yet, and the other things that they knit for soldiers; and if they
haven't, whether you would let me send them to you? It is the only thing
I can do for you who have done so much for me.

I hope you will not think I am presuming to have written this on the
strength of a childish acquaintance. I wish you all honors that can come
to you on such a quest as yours, and I had almost said all good luck,
only that that word sounds too frivolous and pagan for such a serious
matter; so I will say all safety for a swift accomplishment of your task
and a swift homecoming. I used to think when I was a little child that
nothing could ever hurt you or make you afraid, and I cannot help feeling
now that you will come through the fire unscathed. May I hope to hear
from you about the sweater and things? And may I sign myself

                                                           Your friend?

                                                         RUTH MACDONALD.

John Cameron lifted his eyes from the paper at last and looked up at the
sky. Had it ever been so blue before? At the trees. What whispering
wonders of living green! Was that only a bird that was singing that
heavenly song--a meadow lark, not an angel? Why had he never appreciated
meadow larks before?

He rested his head back against a big oak and his soldier's hat fell off
on the ground. He closed his eyes and the burden of loneliness that had
borne down upon him all these weeks in the camp lifted from his heart.
Then he tried to realize what had come to him. Ruth Macdonald, the wonder
and admiration of his childhood days, the admired and envied of the home
town, the petted beauty at whose feet every man fell, the girl who had
everything that wealth could purchase! She had remembered the little old
rose he had dared to throw on her desk, and had bridged the years with
this letter!

He was carried back in spirit to the day he left for camp. To the look in
her eyes as he moved away on the train. The look had been real then, and
not just a fleeting glance helped out by his fevered imagination. There
had been true friendliness in her eyes. She had intended to say good-bye
to him! She had put him on a level with her own beautiful self. She had
knighted him, as it were, and sent him forth! Even the war had become
different since she chose to think he was going forth to fight her
battles. What a sacred trust!

Afar in the distance a bugle sounded that called to duty. He had no idea
how the time had flown. He glanced at his wrist watch and was amazed. He
sprang to his feet and strode over the ground, but the way no longer
seemed dusty and blinded with sunshine. It shone like a path of glory
before his willing feet, and he went to his afternoon round of duties
like a new man. He had a friend, a real friend, one that he had known a
long time. There was no fear that she was just writing to him to get one
more soldier at her feet as some girls would have done. Her letter was
too frank and sincere to leave a single doubt about what she meant. He
would take her at her word.

Sometime during the course of the afternoon it occurred to him to look at
the date of the letter, and he found to his dismay that it had been
written nearly four weeks before and had been travelling around through
various departments in search of him, because it had not the correct
address. He readily guessed that she had not wanted to ask for his
company and barracks; she would not have known who to ask. She did not
know his mother, and who else was there? His old companions were mostly
gone to France or camp somewhere.

And now, since all this time had elapsed she would think he had not
cared, had scorned her letter or thought it unmaidenly! He was filled
with dismay and anxiety lest he had hurt her frankness by his seeming
indifference. And the knitted things, the wonderful things that she had
made with her fair hands! Would she have given them to some one else by
this time? Of course, it meant little to her save as a kind of
acknowledgment for something she thought he had done for her as a child,
but they meant so much to him! Much more than they ought to do, he knew,
for he was in no position to allow himself to become deeply attached to
even the handiwork of any girl in her position. However, nobody need ever
know how much he cared, had always cared, for the lovely little girl with
her blue eyes, her long curls, her shy sweet smile and modest ways, who
had seemed to him like an angel from heaven when he was a boy. She had
said he did not know that he was helping her when he burst through the
hedge on the cowering Chuck Woodcock; and he would likely never dare to
tell her that it was because he saw her fright and saw her hide behind
that tree that he went to investigate and so was able to administer a
just punishment. He had picked that rose from the extreme west corner of
a great petted rose bush on the Wainwright lawn, reaching through an
elaborate iron fence to get it as he went cross-lots back to school. He
would call it stealing now to do that same, but then it had been in the
nature of a holy rite offered to a vestal virgin. Yet he must have cast
it down with the grin of an imp, boorish urchin that he was; and he
remembered blushing hotly in the dark afterwards at his presumption, as
he thought of it alone at night. And all the time she had been liking it.
The little girl--the little sweet girl! She had kept it in her heart and
remembered it!

His heart was light as air as he went back to the barracks for retreat. A
miracle had been wrought for him which changed everything. No, he was not
presuming on a friendly letter. Maybe there would be fellows who would
think there wasn't much in just a friendly letter to a lonely soldier,
and a sweater or two more or less. But then they would never have known
what it was to be so lonely for friendship, real friendship, as he was.

He would hurry through supper and get to the Y.M.C.A. hut to write her an
answer. He would explain how the letter had been delayed and say he hoped
she had not given the things away to someone else. He began planning
sentences as he stood at attention during the captain's inspection at
retreat. Somehow the captain was tiresomely particular about the buttons
and pocket flaps and little details to-night. He waited impatiently for
the command to break ranks, and was one of the first at the door of the
mess hall waiting for supper, his face alight, still planning what he
would say in that letter and wishing he could get some fine stationery to
write upon; wondering if there was any to be had with his caduces on it.

At supper he bubbled with merriment. An old schoolmate might have thought
him rejuvenated. He wore his schoolboy grin and rattled off puns and
jokes, keeping the mess hall in a perfect roar.

At last he was out in the cool of the evening with the wonderful sunset
off in the west, on his way to the Y.M.C.A. hut. He turned a corner
swinging into the main road and there, coming toward him, not twenty feet
away, he saw Lieutenant Wainwright!




VI


There was no possible way to avoid meeting him. John Cameron knew that
with the first glance. He also knew that Wainwright had recognized him at
once and was lifting his chin already with that peculiar, disagreeable
tilt of triumph that had always been so maddening to one who knew the
small mean nature of the man.

Of course, there was still time to turn deliberately about and flee in
the other direction, but that would be all too obvious, and an open
confession of weakness. John Cameron was never at any time a coward.

His firm lips set a trifle more sternly than usual, his handsome head was
held high with fine military bearing. He came forward without faltering
for even so much as the fraction of a waver. There was not a flicker in
his eyes set straight ahead. One would never have known from his looks
that he recognized the oncoming man, or had so much as realized that an
officer was approaching, yet his brain was doing some rapid calculation.
He had said in his heart if not openly that he would never salute this
man. He had many times in their home town openly passed him without
salute because he had absolutely no respect for him, and felt that he
owed it to his sense of the fitness of things not to give him deference,
but that was a different matter from camp. He knew that Wainwright was in
a position to do him injury, and no longer stood in fear of a good
thrashing from him as at home, because here he could easily have the
offender put in the guard house and disgraced forever. Nothing, of
course, would delight him more than thus to humiliate his sworn enemy.
Yet Cameron walked on knowing that he had resolved not to salute him.

It was not merely pride in his own superiority. It was contempt for the
nature of the man, for his low contemptible plots and tricks, and cunning
ways, for his entire lack of principle, and his utter selfishness and
heartlessness, that made Cameron feel justified in his attitude toward
Wainwright. "He is nothing but a Hun at heart," he told himself bitterly.

But the tables were turned. Wainwright was no longer in his home town
where his detestable pranks had goaded many of his neighbors and
fellowtownsmen into a cordial hatred of him. He was in a great military
camp, vested with a certain amount of authority, with the right to report
those under him; who in turn could not retaliate by telling what they
knew of him because it was a court-martial offense for a private to
report an officer. Well, naturally the United States was not supposed to
have put men in authority who needed reporting. Cameron, of course,
realized that these things had to be in order to maintain military
discipline. But it was inevitable that some unworthy ones should creep
in, and Wainwright was surely one of those unworthy ones. He would not
bend to him, officer, or no officer. What did he care what happened to
himself? Who was there to care but his mother? And she would understand
if the news should happen to penetrate to the home town, which was hardly
likely. Those who knew him would not doubt him, those who did not
mattered little. There was really no one who would care. Stay! A letter
crackled in his breast pocket and a cold chill of horror struggled up
from his heart. Suppose _she_ should hear of it! Yes, he would care for
that!

They were almost meeting now and Cameron's eyes were straight ahead
staring hard at the big green shape of the theatre a quarter of a mile
away. His face under its usual control showed no sign of the tumult in
his heart, which flamed with a sudden despair against a fate that had
placed him in such a desperate situation. If there were a just power who
controlled the affairs of men, how could it let such things happen to one
who had always tried to live up upright life? It seemed for that instant
as if all the unfairness and injustice of his own hard life had
culminated in that one moment when he would have to do or not do and bear
the consequences.

Then suddenly out from the barracks close at hand with brisk step and
noble bearing came Captain La Rue, swinging down the walk into the road
straight between the two men and stopped short in front of Cameron with a
light of real welcome in his eyes, as he lifted his hand to answer the
salute which the relieved Cameron instantly flashed at him.

In that second Lieutenant Wainwright flung past them with a curt salute
to the higher officer and a glare at the corporal which the latter seemed
not to see. It was so simultaneous with Cameron's salute of La Rue that
nobody on earth could say that the salute had not included the
lieutenant, yet both the lieutenant and the corporal knew that it had
not; and Wainwright's brow was dark with intention as he turned sharply
up the walk to the barracks which the captain had just left.

"I was just coming in search of you, Cameron," said the captain with a
twinkle in his eyes, and his voice was clearly distinct to Wainwright as
he loitered in the barracks doorway to listen, "I went down to Washington
yesterday and put in the strongest plea I knew how for your transfer. I
hope it will go through all right. There is no one else out for the job
and you are just the man for the place. It will be a great comfort to
have you with me."

A few more words and the busy man moved on eluding Cameron's earnest
thanks and leaving him to pursue his course to the Y.M.C.A. hut with a
sense of soothing and comfort. It never occurred to either of them that
their brief conversation had been overheard, and would not have disturbed
them if it had.

Lieutenant Wainwright lingered on the steps of the barracks with a
growing curiosity and satisfaction. The enemy were playing right into his
hands: _both_ the enemy--for he hated Captain La Rue as sin always hates
the light.

He lounged about the barracks in deep thought for a few minutes and then
made a careful toilet and went out.

He knew exactly where to go and how to use his influence, which was not
small, although not personal. It was characteristic of the man that it
made no difference to him that the power he was wielding was a borrowed
power whose owner would have been the last man to have done what he was
about to do with it. He had never in his life hesitated about getting
whatever he wanted by whatever means presented itself. He was often aware
that people gave him what he wanted merely to get rid of him, but this
did not alloy his pleasure in his achievement.

He was something of a privileged character in the high place to which he
betook himself, on account of the supreme regard which was held for the
uncle, a mighty automobile king, through whose influence he had obtained
his commission. So far he had not availed himself of his privileges too
often and had therefore not as yet outworn his welcome, for he was a true
diplomat. He entered this evening with just the right shade of delicate
assurance and humble affrontery to assure him a cordial welcome, and
gracefully settled himself into the friendliness that was readily
extended to him. He was versed in all the ways of the world and when he
chose could put up a good appearance. He knew that for the sake of his
father's family and more especially because of his uncle's high standing,
this great official whom he was calling upon was bound to be nice to him
for a time. So he bided his time till a few other officials had left and
his turn came.

The talk was all personal, a few words about his relatives and then
questions about himself, his commission, how he liked it, and how things
were going with him. Mere form and courtesy, but he knew how to use the
conversation for his own ends:

"Oh, I'm getting along fine and dandy!" he declared effusively, "I'm just
crazy about camp! I like the life! But I'll tell you what makes me tired.
It's these little common guys running around fussing about their jobs and
trying to get a lot of pull to get into some other place. Now there's an
instance of that in our company, a man from my home town, no account
whatever and never was, but he's got it in his head that he's a square
peg in a round hole and he wants to be transferred. He shouts about it
from morning till night trying to get everybody to help him, and at last
I understand he's hoodwinked one captain into thinking he's the salt of
the earth, and they are plotting together to get him transferred. I
happened to overhear them talking about it just now, how they are going
to this one and that one in Washington to get things fixed to suit them.
They think they've got the right dope on things all right and it's going
through for him to get his transfer. It makes me sick. He's no more fit
for a commission than my dog, not as fit, for he could at least obey
orders. This fellow never did anything but what he pleased. I've known
him since we were kids and never liked him. But he has a way with him
that gets people till they understand him. It's too bad when the country
needs real men to do their duty that a fellow like that can get a
commission when he is utterly inefficient besides being a regular breeder
of trouble. But, of course, I can't tell anybody what I know about him."

"I guess you needn't worry, Wainwright. They can't make any transfers
without sending them up to me, and you may be good and sure I'm not
transferring anybody just now without a good reason, no matter who is
asking it. He's in your company, is he? And where does he ask to be
transferred? Just give me his name. I'll make a note of it. If it ever
comes up I'll know how to finish him pretty suddenly. Though I doubt if
it does. People are not pulling wires just now. This is _war_ and
everything means business. However, if I find there has been wire-pulling
I shall know how to deal with it summarily. It's a court-martial offense,
you know."

They passed on to other topics, and Wainwright with his little eyes
gleaming triumphantly soon took himself out into the starlight knowing
that he had done fifteen minutes' good work and not wishing to outdo it.
He strolled contentedly back to officers' quarters wearing a more
complacent look on his heavy features. He would teach John Cameron to
ignore him!

Meantime John Cameron with his head among the stars walked the dusty camp
streets and forgot the existence of Lieutenant Wainwright. A glow of
gratitude had flooded his soul at sight of his beloved captain, whom he
hoped soon to be able to call _his_ captain. Unconsciously he walked with
more self-respect as the words of confidence and trust rang over again in
his ears. Unconsciously the little matters of personal enmity became
smaller, of less importance, beside the greater things of life in which
he hoped soon to have a real part. If he got this transfer it meant a
chance to work with a great man in a great way that would not only help
the war but would be of great value to him in this world after the war
was over. It was good to have the friendship of a man like that, fine,
clean, strong, intellectual, kind, just, human, gentle as a woman, yet
stern against all who deviated from the path of right.

The dusk was settling into evening and twinkling lights gloomed out amid
the misty, dust-laden air. Snatches of wild song chorused out from open
windows:

                    She's my lady, my baby,
                      She's cock-eyed, she's crazy.

The twang of a banjo trailed in above the voices, with a sound of
scuffling. Loud laughter broke the thread of the song leaving _"Mary
Ann!"_ to soar out alone. Then the chorus took it up once more:

          All her teeth are false
            From eating Rochelle salts--
          She's my freckled-faced, consumptive MARY ANN-N-N!

Cameron turned in at the quiet haven of the Y.M.C.A. hut, glad to leave
the babel sounds outside. Somehow they did not fit his mood to-night,
although there were times when he could roar the outlandish gibberish
with the best of them. But to-night he was on such a wonderful sacred
errand bent, that it seemed as though he wanted to keep his soul from
contact with rougher things lest somehow it might get out of tune and so
unfit him for the task before him.

And then when he had seated himself before the simple desk he looked at
the paper with discontent. True, it was all that was provided and it was
good enough for ordinary letters, but this letter to her was different.
He wished he had something better. To think he was really writing to
_her_! And now that he was here with the paper before him what was he to
say? Words seemed to have deserted him. How should he address her?

It was not until he had edged over to the end of the bench away from
everybody else and taken out the precious letter that he gained
confidence and took up his pen:

"My dear friend:----" Why, he would call her his friend, of course, that
was what she had called him. And as he wrote he seemed to see her again
as she sat in her car by the station the day he started on his long, long
trail and their eyes had met. Looking so into her eyes again, he wrote
straight from his soul:

MY DEAR FRIEND:

Your letter has just reached me after travelling about for weeks. I am
not going to try to tell you how wonderful it is to me to have it. In
fact, the wonder began that morning I left home when you smiled at me and
waved a friendly farewell. It was a great surprise to me. I had not
supposed until that moment that you remembered my existence. Why should
you? And it has never been from lack of desire to do so that I failed to
greet you when we passed in the street. I did not think that I, a mere
little hoodlum from your infant days, had a right to intrude upon your
grown-up acquaintance without a hint from you that such recognition would
be agreeable. I never blamed you for not speaking of course. Perhaps I
didn't give you the chance. I simply thought I had grown out of your
memory as was altogether natural. It was indeed a pleasant experience to
see that light of friendliness in your eyes at the station that day, and
to know it was a real personal recognition and not just a patriotic gush
of enthusiasm for the whole shabby lot of us draftees starting out to an
unknown future. I thanked you in my heart for that little bit of personal
friendliness but I never expected to have an opportunity to thank you in
words, nor to have the friendliness last after I had gone away. When your
letter came this morning it sure was some pleasant surprise. I know you
have a great many friends, and plenty of people to write letters to, but
somehow there was a real note of comradeship in the one you wrote me, not
as if you just felt sorry for me because I had to go off to war and fight
and maybe get killed. It was as if the conditions of the times had
suddenly swept away a lot of foolish conventions of the world, which may
all have their good use perhaps at times, but at a time like this are
superfluous, and you had just gravely and sweetly offered me an old
friend's sympathy and good will. As such I have taken it and am rejoicing
in it.

Don't make any mistake about this, however. I never have forgotten you or
the rose! I stole it from the Wainwright's yard after I got done licking
Chuck, and I had a fight with Hal Wainwright over it which almost
finished the rose, and nearly got me expelled from school before I got
through with it. Hal told his mother and she took it to the school board.
I was a pretty tough little rascal in those days I guess and no doubt
needed some lickings myself occasionally. But I remember I almost lost my
nerve when I got back to school that day and came within an ace of
stuffing the rose in my pocket instead of throwing it on your desk. I
never dreamed the rose would be anything to you. It was only my way of
paying tribute to you. You seemed to me something like a rose yourself,
just dropped down out of heaven you know, you were so little and pink and
gold with such great blue eyes. Pardon me. I don't mean to be too
personal. You don't mind a big hobbledehoy's admiration, do you? You were
only a baby; but I would have licked any boy in town that lifted a word
or a finger against you. And to think you really needed my help! It
certainly would have lifted me above the clouds to have known it then!

And now about this war business. Of course it is a rough job, and
somebody had to do it for the world. I was glad and willing to do my
part; but it makes a different thing out of it to be called a knight, and
I guess I'll look at it a little more respectfully now. If a life like
mine can protect a life like yours from some of the things those Germans
are putting over I'll gladly give it. I've sized it up that a man
couldn't do a bigger thing for the world anyhow he planned it than to
make the world safe for a life like yours; so me for what they call "the
supreme sacrifice," and it won't be any sacrifice at all if it helps you!

No, I haven't got a sweater or those other things that go with those that
you talk about. Mother hasn't time to knit and I never was much of a
lady's man, I guess you know if you know me at all. Or perhaps you don't.
But anyhow I'd be wonderfully pleased to wear a sweater that you knit,
although it seems a pretty big thing for you to do for me. However, if
knitting is your job in this war, and I wouldn't be robbing any other
better fellow, I certainly would just love to have it.

If you could see this big dusty monotonous olive-drab camp you would know
what a bright spot your letter and the thought of a real friend has made
in it. I suppose you have been thinking all this time that I was
neglectful because I didn't answer, but it was all the fault of someone
who gave you the wrong address. I am hoping you will forgive me for the
delay and that some day you will have time to write to me again.

                                                  Sincerely and proudly,

                                                            Your knight,

                                                           JOHN CAMERON.

As he walked back to his barracks in the starlight his heart was filled
with a great peace. What a thing it was to have been able to speak to her
on paper and let her know his thoughts of her. It was as if after all
these years he had been able to pluck another trifling rose and lay it at
her lovely feet. Her knight! It was the fulfillment of all his boyish
dreams!

He had entrusted his letter to the Y.M.C.A. man to mail as he was going
out of camp that night and would mail it in Baltimore, ensuring it an
immediate start. Now he began to speculate whether it would reach its
destination by morning and be delivered with the morning mail. He felt as
excited and impatient as a child over it.

Suddenly a voice above him in a barracks window rang out with a familiar
guffaw, and the words:

"Why, man, I can't! Didn't I tell you I'm going to marry Ruth Macdonald
before I go! There wouldn't be time for that and the other, too!"

Something in his heart grew cold with pain and horror, and something in
his motive power stopped suddenly and halted his feet on the sidewalk in
the grade cut below the officers' barracks.

"Aw! A week more won't make any difference," drawled another familiar
voice, "I say, Hal, she's just crazy about you and you could get no end
of information out of her if you tried. All she asks is that you tell
what you know about a few little things that don't matter anyway."

"But I tell you I can't, man. If Ruth found out about the girl the
mischief would be to pay. She wouldn't stand for another girl--not that
kind of a girl, you know, and there wouldn't be time for me to explain
and smooth things over before I go across the Pond. I tell you I've made
up my mind about this."

The barracks door slammed shut on the voices and Corporal Cameron's heart
gave a great jump upwards in his breast and went on. Slowly, dizzily he
came to his senses and moved on automatically toward his own quarters.




VII


He had passed the quarters of the signal corps before the thought of the
letter he had just written came to his mind. Then he stopped short, gave
one agonizing glance toward his barracks only a few feet away, realized
that it was nearly time for bed call and that he could not possibly make
it if he went back, then whirled about and started out on a wild run like
a madman over the ground he had just traveled. He was not conscious of
carrying on a train of thought as he ran, his only idea was to get to the
Y.M.C.A. hut before the man had left with the letter. Never should his
childhood's enemy have that letter to sneer over!

All the pleasant phrases which had flowed from his pen so easily but a
few moments before seemed to flare now in letters of fire before his
blood-shot eyes as he bounded over the ground. To think he should have
lowered himself and weakened his position so, as to write to the girl who
was soon to be the wife of that contemptible puppy!

The bugles began to sound taps here and there in the barracks as he flew
past, but they meant nothing to him. Breathless he arrived at the
Y.M.C.A. hut just as the last light was being put out. A dark figure
stood on the steps as he halted entirely winded, and tried to gasp out:
"Where is Mr. Hathaway?" to the assistant who was locking up.

"Oh, he left five minutes after you did," said the man with a yawn. "The
rector came by in his car and took him along. Say, you'll be late getting
in, Corporal, taps sounded almost five minutes ago."

With a low exclamation of disgust and dismay Cameron turned and started
back again in a long swinging stride, his face flushing hotly in the dark
over his double predicament. He had gone back for nothing and got himself
subject to a calling down, a thing which he had avoided scrupulously
since coming to camp, but he was so miserable over the other matter that
it seemed a thing of no moment to him now. He was altogether occupied
with metaphorically kicking himself for having answered that letter; for
having mailed it so soon without ever stopping to read it over or give
himself a chance to reconsider. He might have known, he might have
remembered that Ruth Macdonald was no comrade for him; that she was a
neighbor of the Wainwright's and would in all probability be a friend of
the lieutenant's. Not for all that he owned in the world or hoped to own,
would he have thus laid himself open to the possibility of having
Wainwright know any of his inner thoughts. He would rather have lived and
died unknown, unfriended, than that this should come to pass.

And she? The promised wife of Wainwright! Could it be? She must have
written him that letter merely from a fine friendly patronage. All right,
of course, from her standpoint, but from his, gall and wormwood to his
proud spirit. Oh, that he had not answered it! He might have known! He
should have remembered that she had never been in his class. Not that his
people were not as good as hers, and maybe better, so far as intellectual
attainments were concerned; but his had lost their money, had lived a
quiet life, and in her eyes and the eyes of her family were very likely
as the mere dust of the earth. And now, just now when war had set its
seal of sacrifice upon all young men in uniform, he as a soldier had
risen to a kind of deified class set apart for hero worship, nothing
more. It was not her fault that she had been brought up that way, and
that he seemed so to her, and nothing more. She had shown her beautiful
spirit in giving him the tribute that seemed worthiest to her view. He
would not blame her, nor despise her, but he would hold himself aloof as
he had done in the past, and show her that he wanted no favors, no
patronage. He was sufficient to himself. What galled him most was to
think that perhaps in the intimacy of their engagement she might show his
letter to Wainwright, and they would laugh together over him, a poor
soldier, presuming to write as he had done to a girl in her station. They
would laugh together, half pitifully--at least the woman would be
pitiful, the man was likely to sneer. He could see his hateful mustache
curl now with scorn and his little eyes twinkle. And he would tell her
all the lies he had tried to put upon him in the past. He would give her
a wrong idea of his character. He would rejoice and triumph to do so! Oh,
the bitterness of it! It overwhelmed him so that the little matter of
getting into his bunk without being seen by the officer in charge was
utterly overlooked by him.

Perhaps some good angel arranged the way for him so that he was able to
slip past the guards without being challenged. Two of the guards were
talking at the corner of the barracks with their backs to him at the
particular second when he came in sight. A minute later they turned back
to their monotonous march and the shadow of the vanishing corporal had
just disappeared from among the other dark shadows of the night
landscape. Inside the barracks another guard welcomed him eagerly without
questioning his presence there at that hour:

"Say, Cam, how about day after to-morrow? Are you free? Will you take my
place on guard? I want to go up to Philadelphia and see my girl, and I'm
sure of a pass, but I'm listed for guard duty. I'll do the same for you
sometime."

"Sure!" said Cameron heartily, and swung up stairs with a sudden
realization that he had been granted a streak of good luck. Yet somehow
he did not seem to care much.

He tiptoed over to his bunk among the rows of sleeping forms, removed
from it a pair of shoes, three books, some newspapers and a mess kit
which some lazy comrades had left there, and threw himself down with
scant undressing. It seemed as though a great calamity had befallen him,
although when he tried to reason it out he could not understand how
things were so much changed from what they had been that morning before
he received the letter. Ruth Macdonald had never been anything in his
life but a lovely picture. There was no slightest possibility that she
would ever be more. She was like a distant star to be admired but never
come near. Had he been fool enough to have his head turned by her writing
that kind letter to him? Had he even remotely fancied she would ever be
anything nearer to him than just a formal friend who occasionally stooped
to give a bright smile or do a kindness? Well, if he had, he needed this
knockdown blow. It might be a good thing that it came so soon before he
had let this thing grow in his imagination; but oh, if it had but come a
bit sooner! If it had only been on the way over to the Y.M.C.A. hut
instead of on the way back that letter would never have been written! She
would have set him down as a boor perhaps, but what matter? What was she
to him, or he to her? Well--perhaps he would have written a letter
briefly to thank her for her offer of knitting, but it would have been an
entirely different letter from the one he did write. He ground his teeth
as he thought out the letter he should have written:

MY DEAR MISS MACDONALD: (No "friend" about that.)

It certainly was kind of you to think of me as a possible recipient of a
sweater. But I feel that there are other boys who perhaps need things
more than I do. I am well supplied with all necessities. I appreciate
your interest in an old school friend. The life of a soldier is not so
bad, and I imagine we shall have no end of novel experiences before the
war is over. I hope we shall be able to put an end to this terrible
struggle very soon when we get over and make the world a safe and happy
place for you and your friends. Here's hoping the men who are your
special friends will all come home safe and sound and soon.

                                                              Sincerely,

                                                             J. CAMERON.

He wrote that letter over and over mentally as he tossed on his bunk in
the dark, changing phrases and whole sentences. Perhaps it would be
better to say something about "her officer friends" and make it very
clear to her that he understood his own distant position with her. Then
suddenly he kicked the big blue blanket off and sat up with a deep sigh.
What a fool he was. He could not write another letter. The letter was
gone, and as it was written he must abide by it. He could not get it back
or unwrite it much as he wished it. There was no excuse, or way to make
it possible to write and refuse those sweaters and things, was there?

He sat staring into the darkness while the man in the next bunk roused to
toss back his blanket which had fallen superfluously across his face, and
to mutter some sleepy imprecations. But Cameron was off on the
composition of another letter:

MY DEAR MISS MACDONALD:

I have been thinking it over and have decided that I do not need a
sweater or any of those other things you mention. I really am pretty well
supplied with necessities, and you know they don't give us much room to
put anything around the barracks. There must be a lot of other fellows
who need them more, so I will decline that you may give your work to
others who have nothing, or to those who are your personal friends.

                                                             Very truly,

                                                             J. CAMERON.

Having convinced his turbulent brain that it was quite possible for him
to write such a letter as this, he flung himself miserably back on his
hard cot again and realized that he did not want to write it. That it
would be almost an insult to the girl, who even if she had been
patronizing him, had done it with a kind intent, and after all it was not
her fault that he was a fool. She had a right to marry whom she would.
Certainly he never expected her to marry him. Only he had to own to
himself that he wanted those things she had offered. He wanted to touch
something she had worked upon, and feel that it belonged to him. He
wanted to keep this much of human friendship for himself. Even if she was
going to marry another man, she had always been his ideal of a beautiful,
lovable woman, and as such she should stay his, even if she married a
dozen enemy officers!

It was then he began to see that the thing that was really making him
miserable was that she was giving her sweet young life to such a rotten
little mean-natured man as Wainwright. That was the real pain. If some
fine noble man like--well--like Captain La Rue, only younger, of course,
should come along he would be glad for her. But this excuse for a man!
Oh, it was outrageous! How could she be so deceived? and yet, of course,
women knew very little of men. They had no standards by which to judge
them. They had no opportunity to see them except in plain sight of those
they wished to please. One could not expect them to have discernment in
selecting their friends. But what a pity! Things were all wrong! There
ought to be some way to educate a woman so that she would realize the
dangers all about her and be somewhat protected. It was worse for Ruth
Macdonald because she had no men in her family who could protect her. Her
old grandfather was the only near living male relative and he was a
hopeless invalid, almost entirely confined to the house. What could he
know of the young men who came to court his granddaughter? What did he
remember of the ways of men, having been so many years shut away from
their haunts?

The corporal tossed on his hard cot and sighed like a furnace. There
ought to be some one to protect her. Someone ought to make her understand
what kind of a fellow Wainwright was! She had called him her knight, and
a knight's business was to protect, yet what could he do? He could not go
to her and tell her that the man she was going to marry was rotten and
utterly without moral principle. He could not even send some one else to
warn her. Who could he send? His mother? No, his mother would feel shy
and afraid of a girl like that. She had always lived a quiet life. He
doubted if she would understand herself how utterly unfit a mate
Wainwright was for a good pure girl. And there was no one else in the
world that he could send. Besides, if she loved the man, and
incomprehensible as it seemed, she must love him or why should she marry
him?--if she loved him she would not believe an angel from heaven against
him. Women were that way; that is, if they were good women, like Ruth.
Oh, to think of her tied up to that--_beast!_ He could think of no other
word. In his agony he rolled on his face and groaned aloud.

"Oh God!" his soul cried out, "why do such things have to be? If there
really is a God why does He let such awful things happen to a pure good
girl? The same old bitter question that had troubled the hard young days
of his own life. Could there be a God who cared when bitterness was in so
many cups? Why had God let the war come?"

Sometime in the night the tumult in his brain and heart subsided and he
fell into a profound sleep. The next thing he knew the kindly roughness
of his comrades wakened him with shakes and wet sponges flying through
the air, and he opened his consciousness to the world again and heard the
bugle blowing for roll call. Another day had dawned grayly and he must
get up. They set him on his feet, and bantered him into action, and he
responded with his usual wit that put them all in howls of laughter, but
as he stumbled into place in the line in the five o'clock dawning he
realized that a heavy weight was on his heart which he tried to throw
off. What did it matter what Ruth Macdonald did with her life? She was
nothing to him, never had been and never could be. If only he had not
written that letter all would now be as it always had been. If only she
had not written her letter! Or no! He put his hand to his breast pocket
with a quick movement of protection. Somehow he was not yet ready to
relinquish that one taste of bright girl friendliness, even though it had
brought a stab in its wake.

He was glad when the orders came for him and five other fellows to tramp
across the camp to the gas school and go through two solid hours of
instruction ending with a practical illustration of the gas mask and a
good dose of gas. It helped to put his mind on the great business of war
which was to be his only business now until it or he were ended. He set
his lips grimly and went about his work vigorously. What did it matter,
anyway, what she thought of him? He need never answer another letter,
even if she wrote. He need not accept the package from the post office.
He could let them send it back--refuse it and let them send it back, that
was what he could do! Then she might think what she liked. Perhaps she
would suppose him already gone to France. Anyhow, he would forget her! It
was the only sensible thing to do.

Meanwhile the letter had flown on its way with more than ordinary
swiftness, as if it had known that a force was seeking to bring it back
again. The Y.M.C.A. man was carried at high speed in an automobile to the
nearest station to the camp, and arrived in time to catch the Baltimore
train just stopping. In the Baltimore station he went to mail the letter
just as the letter gatherer arrived with his keys to open the box. So the
letter lost no time but was sorted and started northward before midnight,
and by some happy chance arrived at its destination in time to be laid by
Ruth Macdonald's plate at lunch time the next day.

Some quick sense must have warned Ruth, for she gathered her mail up and
slipped it unobtrusively into the pocket of her skirt before it could be
noticed. Dottie Wetherill had come home with her for lunch and the bright
red Y.M.C.A. triangle on the envelope was so conspicuous. Dottie was
crazy over soldiers and all things military. She would be sure to exclaim
and ask questions. She was one of those people who always found out
everything about you that you did not keep under absolute lock and key.

Every day since she had written her letter to Cameron Ruth had watched
for an answer, her cheeks glowing sometimes with the least bit of
mortification that she should have written at all to have received this
rebuff. Had he, after all, misunderstood her? Or had the letter gone
astray, or the man gone to the front? She had almost given up expecting
an answer now after so many weeks, and the nice warm olive-drab sweater
and neatly knitted socks with extra long legs and bright lines of color
at the top, with the wristlets and muffler lay wrapped in tissue paper at
the very bottom of a drawer in the chiffonier where she would seldom see
it and where no one else would ever find it and question her. Probably by
and by when the colored draftees were sent away she would get them out
and carry them down to the headquarters to be given to some needy man.
She felt humiliated and was beginning to tell herself that it was all her
own fault and a good lesson for her. She had even decided not to go and
see John Cameron's mother again lest that, too, might be misunderstood.
It seemed that the frank true instincts of her own heart had been wrong,
and she was getting what she justly deserved for departing from Aunt
Rhoda's strictly conventional code.

Nevertheless, the letter in her pocket which she had not been able to
look at carefully enough to be sure if she knew the writing, crackled and
rustled and set her heart beating excitedly, and her mind to wondering
what it might be. She answered Dottie Wetherill's chatter with distraught
monosyllables and absent smiles, hoping that Dottie would feel it
necessary to go home soon after lunch.

But it presently became plain that Dottie had no intention of going home
soon; that she had come for a purpose and that she was plying all her
arts to accomplish it. Ruth presently roused from her reverie to realize
this and set herself to give Dottie as little satisfaction as possible
out of her task. It was evident that she had been sent to discover the
exact standing and relation in which Ruth held Lieutenant Harry
Wainwright. Ruth strongly suspected that Dottie's brother Bob had been
the instigator of the mission, and she had no intention of giving him the
information.

So Ruth's smiles came out and the inscrutable twinkle grew in her lovely
eyes. Dottie chattered on sentence after sentence, paragraph after
paragraph, theme after theme, always rounding up at the end with some
perfectly obvious leading question. Ruth answered in all apparent
innocence and sincerity, yet with an utterly different turn of the
conversation from what had been expected, and with an indifference that
was hopelessly baffling unless the young ambassador asked a point blank
question, which she hardly dared to do of Ruth Macdonald without more
encouragement. And so at last a long two hours dragged thus away, and
finally Dottie Wetherill at the end of her small string, and at a loss
for more themes on which to trot around again to the main idea,
reluctantly accepted her defeat and took herself away, leaving Ruth to
her long delayed letter.




VIII


Ruth sat looking into space with starry eyes and glowing cheeks after she
had read the letter. It seemed to her a wonderful letter, quite the most
wonderful she had ever received. Perhaps it was because it fitted so
perfectly with her ideal of the writer, who from her little girlhood had
always been a picture of what a hero must be. She used to dream big
things about him when she was a child. He had been the best baseball
player in school when he was ten, and the handsomest little rowdy in
town, as well as the boldest, bravest champion of the little girls.

As she grew older and met him occasionally she had always been glad that
he kept his old hero look though often appearing in rough garb. She had
known they were poor. There had been some story about a loss of money and
a long expensive sickness of the father's following an accident which
made all the circumstances most trying, but she had never heard the
details. She only knew that most of the girls in her set looked on him as
a nobody and would no more have companied with him than with their
father's chauffeur. After he grew older and began to go to college some
of the girls began to think he was good looking, and to say it was quite
commendable in him to try to get an education. Some even unearthed the
fact that his had been a fine old family in former days and that there
had been wealth and servants once. But the story died down as John
Cameron walked his quiet way apart, keeping to his old friends, and not
responding to the feeble advances of the girls. Ruth had been away at
school in these days and had seldom seen him. When she had there had
always been that lingering admiration for him from the old days. She had
told herself that of course he could not be worth much or people would
know him. He was probably ignorant and uncultured, and a closer
acquaintance would show him far from what her young ideas had pictured
her hero. But somehow that day at the station, the look in his face had
revealed fine feeling, and she was glad now to have her intuition
concerning him verified by his letter.

And what a letter it was! Why, no young man of her acquaintance could
have written with such poetic delicacy. That paragraph about the rose was
beautiful, and not a bit too presuming, either, in one who had been a
perfect stranger all these years. She liked his simple frankness and the
easy way he went back twelve years and began just where they left off.
There was none of the bold forwardness that might have been expected in
one who had not moved in cultured society. There was no unpleasant
assumption of familiarity which might have emphasized her fear that she
had overstepped the bounds of convention in writing to him in the first
place. On the contrary, her humiliation at his long delayed answer was
all forgotten now. He had understood her perfectly and accepted her
letter in exactly the way she had meant it without the least bit of
foolishness or unpleasantness. In short, he had written the sort of a
letter that the kind of man she had always thought--hoped--he was would
be likely to write, and it gave her a surprisingly pleasant feeling of
satisfaction. It was as if she had discovered a friend all of her own not
made for her by her family, nor one to whom she fell heir because of her
wealth and position; but just one she had found, out in the great world
of souls.

If he had been going to remain at home there might have been a number of
questions, social and conventional, which would have arisen to bar the
way to this free feeling of a friendship, and which she would have had to
meet and reason with before her mind would have shaken itself unhampered;
but because he was going away and on such an errand, perhaps never to
return, the matter of what her friends might think or what the world
would say, simply did not enter into the question at all. The war had
lifted them both above such ephemeral barriers into the place of vision
where a soul was a soul no matter what he possessed or who he was. So, as
she sat in her big white room with all its dainty accessories to a
luxurious life, fit setting for a girl so lovely, she smiled unhindered
at this bit of beautiful friendship that had suddenly drifted down at her
feet out of a great outside unknown world. She touched the letter
thoughtfully with caressing fingers, and the kind of a high look in her
eyes that a lady of old must have worn when she thought of her knight. It
came to her to wonder that she had not felt so about any other of her men
friends who had gone into the service. Why should this special one
soldier boy represent the whole war, as it were, in this way to her.
However, it was but a passing thought, and with a smile still upon her
lips she went to the drawer and brought out the finely knitted garments
she had made, wrapping them up with care and sending them at once upon
their way. It somehow gave her pleasure to set aside a small engagement
she had for that afternoon until she had posted the package herself.

Even then, when she took her belated way to a little gathering in honor
of one of her girl friends who was going to be married the next week to a
young aviator, she kept the smile on her lips and the dreamy look in her
eyes, and now and then brought herself back from the chatter around her
to remember that something pleasant had happened. Not that there was any
foolishness in her thoughts. There was too much dignity and simplicity
about the girl, young as she was, to allow her to deal even with her own
thoughts in any but a maidenly way, and it was not in the ordinary way of
a maid with a man that she thought of this young soldier. He was so far
removed from her life in every way, and all the well-drilled formalities,
that it never occurred to her to think of him in the same way she thought
of her other men friends.

A friend who understood her, and whom she could understand. That was what
she had always wanted and what she had never quite had with any of her
young associates. One or two had approached to that, but always there had
been a point at which they had fallen short. That she should make this
man her friend whose letter crackled in her pocket, in that intimate
sense of the word, did not occur to her even now. He was somehow set
apart for service in her mind; and as such she had chosen him to be her
special knight, she to be the lady to whom he might look for
encouragement--whose honor he was going forth to defend. It was a misty
dreamy ideal of a thought. Somehow she would not have picked out any
other of her boy friends to be a knight for her. They were too flippant,
too careless and light hearted. The very way in which they lighted their
multitudinous cigarettes and flipped the match away gave impression that
they were going to have the time of their lives in this war. They might
have patriotism down at the bottom of all this froth and boasting,
doubtless they had; but there was so little seriousness about them that
one would never think of them as knights, defenders of some great cause
of righteousness. Perhaps she was all wrong. Perhaps it was only her old
baby fancy for the little boy who could always "lick" the other boys and
save the girls from trouble that prejudiced her in his favor, but at
least it was pleasant and a great relief to know that her impulsive
letter had not been misunderstood.

The girls prattled of this one and that who were "going over" soon, told
of engagements and marriages soon to occur; criticized the brides and
grooms to be; declared their undying opinions about what was fitting for
a war bride to wear; and whether they would like to marry a man who had
to go right into war and might return minus an arm or an eye. They
discoursed about the U-boats with a frothy cheerfulness that made Ruth
shudder; and in the same breath told what nice eyes a young captain had
who had recently visited the town, and what perfectly lovely uniforms he
wore. They argued with serious zeal whether a girl should wear an
olive-drab suit this year if she wanted to look really smart.

They were the girls among whom she had been brought up, and Ruth was used
to their froth, but somehow to-day it bored her beyond expression. She
was glad to make an excuse to get away and she drove her little car
around by the way of John Cameron's home hoping perhaps to get a glimpse
of his mother again. But the house had a shut up look behind the vine
that he had trained, as if it were lonely and lying back in a long wait
till he should come--or not come! A pang went through her heart. For the
first time she thought what it meant for a young life like that to be
silenced by cold steel. The home empty! The mother alone! His ambitions
and hopes unfulfilled! It came to her, too, that if he were her knight he
might have to die for her--for his cause! She shuddered and swept the
unpleasant thought away, but it had left its mark and would return again.

On the way back she passed a number of young soldiers home on twenty-four
hour leave from the nearby camps. They saluted most eagerly, and she knew
that any one of them would have gladly occupied the vacant seat in her
car, but she was not in the mood to talk with them. She felt that there
was something to be thought out and fixed in her mind, some impression
that life had for her that afternoon that she did not want to lose in the
mild fritter of gay banter that would be sure to follow if she stopped
and took home some of the boys. So she bowed graciously and swept by at a
high speed as if in a great hurry. The war! The war! It was beating
itself into her brain again in much the same way it had done on that
morning when the drafted men went away, only now it had taken on a more
personal touch. She kept seeing the lonely vine-clad house where that one
soldier had lived, and which he had left so desolate. She kept thinking
how many such homes and mothers there must be in the land.

That evening when she was free to go to her room she read John Cameron's
letter again, and then, feeling almost as if she were childish in her
haste, she sat down and wrote an answer. Somehow that second reading made
her feel his wish for an answer. It seemed a mute appeal that she could
not resist.

When John Cameron received that letter and the accompanying package he
was lifted into the seventh heaven for a little while. He forgot all his
misgivings, he even forgot Lieutenant Wainwright who had but that day
become a most formidable foe, having been transferred to Cameron's
company, where he was liable to be commanding officer in absence of the
captain, and where frequent salutes would be inevitable. It had been a
terrible blow to Cameron. But now it suddenly seemed a small matter. He
put on his new sweater and swelled around the way the other boys did,
letting them all admire him. He examined the wonderful socks almost
reverently, putting a large curious finger gently on the red and blue
stripes and thrilling with the thought that her fingers had plied the
needles in those many, many stitches to make them. He almost felt it
would be sacrilege to wear them, and he laid them away most carefully and
locked them into the box under his bed lest some other fellow should
admire and desire them to his loss. But with the letter he walked away
into the woods as far as the bounds of the camp would allow and read and
reread it, rising at last from it as one refreshed from a comforting meal
after long fasting. It was on the way back to his barracks that night,
walking slowly under the starlight, not desiring to be back until the
last minute before night taps because he did not wish to break the
wonderful evening he had spent with her, that he resolved to try to get
leave the next Saturday and go home to thank her.

Back in the barracks with the others he fairly scintillated with wit and
kept his comrades in roars of laughter until the officer of the night
suppressed them summarily. But long after the others were asleep he lay
thinking of her, and listening to the singing of his soul as he watched a
star that twinkled with a friendly gleam through a crack in the roof
above his cot. Once again there came the thought of God, and a feeling of
gratitude for this lovely friendship in his life. If he knew where God
was he would like to thank Him. Lying so and looking up to the star he
breathed from his heart a wordless thanksgiving.

The next night he wrote and told her he was coming, and asked permission
to call and thank her face to face. Then he fairly haunted the post
office at mail time the rest of the week hoping for an answer. He had not
written his mother about his coming, for he meant not to go this week if
there came no word from Ruth. Besides, it would be nice to surprise his
mother. Then there was some doubt about his getting a pass anyway, and so
between the two anxieties he was kept busy up to the last minute. But
Friday evening he got his pass, and in the last mail came a special
delivery from Ruth, just a brief note saying she had been away from home
when his letter arrived, but she would be delighted to see him on Sunday
afternoon as he had suggested.

He felt like a boy let loose from school as he brushed up his uniform and
polished his big army shoes while his less fortunate companions kidded
him about the girl he was going to see. He denied their thrusts joyously,
in his heart repudiating any such personalities, yet somehow it was
pleasant. He had never realized how pleasant it would be to have a girl
and be going to see her--such a girl! Of course, she was not for him--not
with that possessiveness. But she was a friend, a real friend, and he
would not let anything spoil the pleasure of that!

He had not thought anything in his army experience could be so exciting
as that first ride back home again. Somehow the deference paid to his
uniform got into his blood and made him feel that people all along the
line really did care for what the boys were doing for them. It made camp
life and hardships seem less dreary.

It was great to get back to his little mother and put his big arms around
her again. She seemed so small. Had she shrunken since he left her or was
he grown so much huskier with the out of door life? Both, perhaps, and he
looked at her sorrowfully. She was so little and quiet and brave to bear
life all alone. If he only could get back and get to succeeding in life
so that he might make some brightness for her. She had borne so much, and
she ought not to have looked so old and worn at her age! For a brief
instant again his heart was almost bitter, and he wondered what God meant
by giving his good little mother so much trouble. Was there a God when
such things could be? He resolved to do something about finding out this
very day.

It was pleasant to help his mother about the kitchen, saving her as she
had not been saved since he left, telling her about the camp, and
listening to her tearful admiration of him. She could scarcely take her
eyes from him, he seemed so tall and big and handsome in his uniform; he
appeared so much older and more manly that her heart yearned for her boy
who seemed to be slipping away from her. It was so heavenly blessed to
sit down beside him and sew on a button and mend a torn spot in his
flannel shirt and have him pat her shoulder now and then contentedly.

Then with pride she sent him down to the store for something nice for
dinner, and watched him through the window with a smile, the tears
running down her cheeks. How tall and straight he walked! How like his
father when she first knew him! She hoped the neighbors all were looking
out and would see him. Her boy! Her soldier boy! And he must go away from
her, perhaps to die!

But--_he was here to-day_! She would not think of the rest. She would
rejoice now in his presence.

He walked briskly down the street past the houses that had been familiar
all his life, meeting people who had never been wont to notice him
before; and they smiled upon him from afar now; greeted him with
enthusiasm, and turned to look after him as he passed on. It gave him a
curious feeling to have so much attention from people who had never known
him before. It made him feel strangely small, yet filled with a great
pride and patriotism for the country that was his, and the government
which he now represented to them all. He was something more to them now
than just one of the boys about town who had grown up among them. He was
a soldier of the United States. He had given his life for the cause of
righteousness. The bitterness he might have felt at their former ignoring
of him, was all swallowed up in their genuine and hearty friendliness.

He met the white-haired minister, kindly and dignified, who paused to ask
him how he liked camp life and to commend him as a soldier; and looking
in his strong gentle face John Cameron remembered his resolve.

He flashed a keen look at the gracious countenance and made up his mind
to speak:

"I'd like to ask you a question, Doctor Thurlow. It's been bothering me
quite a little ever since this matter of going away to fight has been in
my mind. Is there any way that a man--that _I_ can find God? That is, if
there is a God. I've never thought much about it before, but life down
there in camp makes a lot of things seem different, and I've been
wondering. I'm not sure what I believe. Is there anyway I can find out?"

A pleasant gleam of surprise and delight thrilled into the deep blue eyes
of the minister. It was startling. It almost embarrassed him for a
moment, it was so unexpected to have a soldier ask a question about God.
It was almost mortifying that he had never thought it worth while to take
the initiative on that question with the young man.

"Why, certainly!" he said heartily. "Of course, of course. I'm very glad
to know you are interested in those things. Couldn't you come in to my
study and talk with me. I think I could help you. I'm sure I could."

"I haven't much time," said Cameron shyly, half ashamed now that he had
opened his heart to an almost stranger. He was not even his mother's
minister, and he was a comparative newcomer in the town. How had he come
to speak to him so impulsively?

"I understand, exactly, of course," said the minister with growing
eagerness. "Could you come in now for five or ten minutes? I'll turn back
with you and you can stop on your way, or we can talk as we go. Were you
thinking of uniting with the church? We have our communion the first
Sunday of next month. I should be very glad if you could arrange. We have
a number of young people coming in now. I'd like to see you come with
them. The church is a good safe place to be. It was established by God.
It is a school in which to learn of Him. It is----"

"But I'm not what you would call a Christian!" protested Cameron. "I
don't even know that I believe in the Bible. I don't know what your
church believes. I don't have a very definite idea what any church
believes. I would be a hypocrite to stand up and join a church when I
wasn't sure there was a God."

"My dear young fellow!" said the minister affectionately. "Not at all!
Not at all! The church is the place for young people to come when they
have doubts. It is a shelter, and a growing place. Just trust yourself to
God and come in among His people and your doubts will vanish. Don't worry
about doubts. Many people have doubts. Just let them alone and put
yourself in the right way and you will forget them. I should be glad to
talk with you further. I would like to see you come into communion with
God's people. If you want to find God you should come where He has
promised to be. It is a great thing to have a fine young fellow like you,
and a soldier, array himself on the side of God. I would like to see you
stand up on the right side before you go out to meet danger and perhaps
death."

John Cameron stood watching him as he talked.

"He's a good old guy," he thought gravely, "but he doesn't get my point.
He evidently believes what he says, but I don't just see going
blindfolded into a church. However, there's something to what he says
about going where God is if I want to find him."

Out loud he merely said:

"I'll think about it, Doctor, and perhaps come in to see you the next
time I'm home." Then he excused himself and went on to the store.

As he walked away he said to himself:

"I wonder what Ruth Macdonald would say if I asked her the same question?
I wonder if she has thought anything about it? I wonder if I'd ever have
the nerve to ask her?"

The next morning he suggested to his mother that they go to Doctor
Thurlow's church together. She would have very much preferred going to
her own church with him, but she knew that he did not care for the
minister and had never been very friendly with the people, so she put
aside her secret wish and went with him. To tell the truth she was very
proud to go anywhere with her handsome soldier son, and one thing that
made her the more willing was that she remembered that the Macdonalds
always went to the Presbyterian church, and perhaps they would be there
to-day and Ruth would see them. But she said not a word of this to her
boy.

John spent most of the time with his mother. He went up to college for an
hour or so Saturday evening, dropping in on his fraternity for a few
minutes and realizing what true friends he had among the fellows who were
left, though most of them were gone. He walked about the familiar rooms,
looking at the new pictures, photographs of his friends in uniform. This
one was a lieutenant in Officers' Training Camp. That one had gone with
the Ambulance Corps. Tom was with the Engineers, and Jimmie and Sam had
joined the Tank Service. Two of the fellows were in France in the front
ranks, another had enlisted in the Marines, it seemed that hardly any
were left, and of those three had been turned down for some slight
physical defect, and were working in munition factories and the
ship-yard. Everything was changed. The old playmates had become men with
earnest purposes. He did not stay long. There was a restlessness about it
all that pulled the strings of his heart, and made him realize how
different everything was.

Sunday morning as he walked to church with his mother he wondered why he
had never gone more with her when he was at home. It seemed a pleasant
thing to do.

The service was beautifully solemn, and Doctor Thurlow had many gracious
words to say of the boys in the army, and spent much time reading letters
from those at the front who belonged to the church and Sunday school, and
spoke of the "supreme sacrifice" in the light of a saving grace; but the
sermon was a gentle ponderous thing that got nowhere, spiced toward its
close with thrilling scenes from battle news. John Cameron as he listened
did not feel that he had found God. He did not feel a bit enlightened by
it. He laid it to his own ignorance and stupidity, though, and determined
not to give up the search. The prayer at the close of the sermon somehow
clinched this resolve because there was something so genuine and sweet
and earnest about it. He could not help thinking that the man might know
more of God than he was able to make plain to his hearers. He had really
never noticed either a prayer or a sermon before in his life. He had sat
in the room with very few. He wondered if all sermons and prayers were
like these and wished he had noticed them. He had never been much of a
church goer.

But the climax, the real heart of his whole two days, was after Sunday
dinner when he went out to call upon Ruth Macdonald. And it was
characteristic of his whole reticent nature, and the way he had been
brought up, that he did not tell his mother where he was going. It had
never occurred to him to tell her his movements when they did not
directly concern her, and she had never brought herself up to ask him. It
is the habit of some women, and many mothers.

A great embarrassment fell upon him as he entered the grounds of the
Macdonald place, and when he stood before the plate-glass doors waiting
for an answer to his ring he would have turned and fled if he had not
promised to come.

It was perhaps not an accident that Ruth let him in herself and took him
to a big quiet library with wide-open windows overlooking the lawn, and
heavy curtains shutting them in from the rest of the house, where, to his
great amazement, he could feel at once at ease with her and talk to her
just as he had done in her letters and his own.

Somehow it was like having a lifetime dream suddenly fulfilled to be
sitting this way in pleasant converse with her, watching the lights and
shadows of expression flit across her sensitive face, and knowing that
the light in her eyes was for him. It seemed incredible, but she
evidently enjoyed talking to him. Afterwards he thought about it as if
their souls had been calling to one another across infinite space, things
that neither of them could quite hear, and now they were within hailing
distance.

He had thanked her for the sweater and other things, and they had talked
a little about the old school days and how life changed people, when he
happened to glance out of the window near him and saw a man in officer's
uniform approaching. He stopped short in the midst of a sentence and
rose, his face set, his eyes still on the rapidly approaching soldiers:

"I'm sorry," he said, "I shall have to go. It's been wonderful to come,
but I must go at once. Perhaps you'll let me go out this way. It is a
shorter cut. Thank you for everything, and perhaps if there's ever
another time--I'd like to come again----"

"Oh, please don't go yet!" she said putting out her hand in protest. But
he grasped the hand with a quick impulsive grip and with a hasty: "I'm
sorry, but I must!" he opened the glass door to the side piazza and was
gone.

In much bewilderment and distress Ruth watched him stride away toward the
hedge and disappear. Then she turned to the front window and caught a
glimpse of Lieutenant Wainwright just mounting the front steps. What did
it all mean?




IX


Ruth tried to control her perturbation and meet her guest with an
unruffled countenance, but there was something about the bland smug
countenance of Lieutenant Wainwright that irritated her. To have her
first pleasant visit with Cameron suddenly broken up in this mysterious
fashion, and Wainwright substituted for Cameron was somehow like taking a
bite of some pleasant fruit and having it turn out plain potato in one's
mouth. It was so sudden, like that. She could not seem to get her
equilibrium. Her mind was in a whirl of question and she could not focus
it on her present caller nor think of anything suitable to say to him.
She was not even sure but that he was noticing that she was distraught.

To have John Cameron leave in that precipitate manner at the sight of
Harry Wainwright! It was all too evident that he had seen him through the
window. But they were fellow townsmen, and had gone to school together!
Surely he knew him! Of course, Harry was a superior officer, but Cameron
would not be the kind of man to mind that. She could not understand it.
There had been a look in his face--a set look! There must be something
behind it all. Some reason why he did not want to be seen by Wainwright.
Surely Cameron had nothing of which to be ashamed! The thought brought a
sudden dismay. What did she know about Cameron after all? A look, a
smile, a bit of boyish gallantry. He might be anything but fine in his
private life, of course, and Harry might be cognizant of the fact. Yet he
did not look like that. Even while the thought forced itself into her
mind she resented it and resisted it. Then turning to her guest who was
giving an elaborate account of how he had saved a woman's life in an
automobile accident, she interrupted him:

"Harry, what do you know about John Cameron?" she asked impulsively.

Wainwright's face darkened with an ugly frown.

"More than I want to know," he answered gruffly. "He's rotten! That's
all! Why?" He eyed her suspiciously.

There was something in his tone that put her on the defensive at once:

"Oh, I saw him to-day, and I was wondering," she answered evasively.

"It's one of the annoyances of army life that we have to be herded up
with all sorts of cattle!" said Wainwright with a disdainful curl of his
baby mustache. "But I didn't come here to talk about John Cameron. I came
to tell you that I'm going to be married, Ruth. I'm going to be married
before I go to France!"

"Delightful!" said Ruth pleasantly. "Do I know the lady?"

"Indeed you do," he said watching her with satisfaction. "You've known,
for several years that you were the only one for me, and I've come to
tell you that I won't stand any more dallying. I mean business now!"

He crossed his fat leather puttees creakily and swelled out, trying to
look firm. He had decided that he must impress her with the seriousness
of the occasion.

But Ruth only laughed merrily. He had been proposing to her ever since he
got out of short trousers, and she had always laughed him out of it. The
first time she told him that she was only a kid and he wasn't much more
himself, and she didn't want to hear any more such talk. Of late he had
grown less troublesome, and she had been inclined to settle down to the
old neighborly playmate relation, so she was not greatly disturbed by the
turn of the conversation. In fact, she was too much upset and annoyed by
the sudden departure of Cameron to realize the determined note in
Wainwright's voice.

"I mean it!" he said in an offended tone, flattening his double chin and
rolling out his fat lips importantly. "I'm not to be played with any
longer."

Ruth's face sobered:

"I certainly never had an idea of playing with you, Harry. I think I've
always been quite frank with you."

Wainwright felt that he wasn't getting on quite as well as he had
planned. He frowned and sat up:

"Now see here, Ruth! Let's talk this thing over!" he said, drawing the
big leather chair in which he was sitting nearer to hers.

But Ruth's glance had wandered out of the window. "Why, there comes
Bobbie Wetherill!" she exclaimed eagerly and slipped out of her chair to
the door just as one of Wainwright's smooth fat hands reached out to take
hold of the arm of her rocker. "I'll open the door for him. Mary is in
the kitchen and may not hear the bell right away."

There was nothing for Wainwright to do but make the best of the
situation, although he greeted Wetherill with no very good grace, and his
large lips pouted out sulkily as he relaxed into his chair again to await
the departure of the intruder.

Lieutenant Wetherill was quite overwhelmed with the warmth of the
greeting he received from Ruth and settled down to enjoy it while it
lasted. With a wicked glance of triumph at his rival he laid himself out
to make his account of camp life as entertaining as possible. He produced
a gorgeous box of bonbons and arranged himself comfortably for the
afternoon, while Wainwright's brow grew darker and his lips pouted out
farther and farther under his petted little moustache. It was all a great
bore to Ruth just now with her mind full of the annoyance about Cameron.
At least she would have preferred to have had her talk with him and found
out what he was with her own judgment. But anything was better than, a
_tête-à-tête_ with Wainwright just now; so she ate bonbons and asked
questions, and kept the conversation going, ignoring Wainwright's
increasing grouch.

It was a great relief, however, when about half-past four the maid
appeared at the door:

"A long distance telephone call for you, Miss Ruth."

As Ruth was going up the stairs to her own private 'phone she paused to
fasten the tie of her low shoe that had come undone and was threatening
to trip her, and she heard Harry Wainwright's voice in an angry snarl:

"What business did you have coming here to-day, you darned chump! You
knew what I came for, and you did it on purpose! If you don't get out the
minute she gets back I'll put her wise to you and the kind of girls you
go with in no time. And you needn't think you can turn the tables on me,
either, for I'll fix you so you won't dare open your fool mouth!"

The sentence finished with an oath and Ruth hurried into her room and
shut the door with a sick kind of feeling that her whole little world was
turning black about her.

It was good to hear the voice of her cousin, Captain La Rue, over the
'phone, even though it was but a message that he could not come as he had
promised that evening. It reassured her that there were good men in the
world. Of course, he was older, but she was sure he had never been what
people called "wild," although he had plenty of courage and spirit. She
had often heard that good men were few, but it had never seemed to apply
to her world but vaguely. Now here of a sudden a slur had been thrown at
three of her young world. John Cameron, it is true, was a comparative
stranger, and, of course, she had no means of judging except by the look
in his eyes. She understood in a general way that "rotten" as applied to
a young man's character implied uncleanness. John Cameron's eyes were
steady and clear. They did not look that way. But then, how could she
tell? And here, this very minute she had been hearing that Bobbie
Wetherill's life was not all that it should be and Wainwright had tacitly
accepted the possibility of the same weakness in himself. These were boys
with whom she had been brought up. Selfish and conceited she had often
thought them on occasion, but it had not occurred to her that there might
be anything worse. She pressed her hands to her eyes and tried to force a
calm steadiness into her soul. Somehow she had an utter distaste for
going back into that library and hearing their boastful chatter. Yet she
must go. She had been hoping all the afternoon for her cousin's arrival
to send the other two away. Now that was out of the question and she must
use her own tact to get pleasantly rid of them. With a sigh she opened
her door and started down stairs again.

It was Wainwright's blatant voice again that broke through the Sabbath
afternoon stillness of the house as she approached the library door:

"Yes, I've got John Cameron all right now!" he laughed. "He won't hold
his head so high after he's spent a few days in the guard-house. And
that's what they're all going to get that are late coming back this time.
I found out before I left camp that his pass only reads till eleven
o'clock and the five o'clock train is the last one he can leave Chester
on to get him to camp by eleven. So I hired a fellow that was coming up
to buddy-up to Cam and fix it that he is to get a friend of his to take
them over to Chester in time for the train. The fellow don't have to get
back himself to-night at all, but he isn't going to let on, you know, so
Cam will think they're in the same boat. Then they're going to have a
little bit of tire trouble, down in that lonely bit of rough road, that
short cut between here and Chester, where there aren't any cars passing
to help them out, and they'll miss the train at Chester. See? And then
the man will offer to take them on to camp in his car and they'll get
stuck again down beyond Wilmington, lose the road, and switch off toward
Singleton--you know, where we took those girls to that little
out-of-the-way tavern that time--and you see Cam getting back to camp in
time, don't you?"

Ruth had paused with her hand on the heavy portiere, wide-eyed.

"But Cameron'll find a way out. He's too sharp. He'll start to walk, or
he'll get some passing car to take him," said Wetherill with conviction.

"No, he won't. The fellows are all primed. They're going to catch him in
spots where cars don't go, where the road is bad, you know, and nobody
but a fool would go with a car. He won't be noticing before they break
down because this fellow told him his man could drive a car over the moon
and never break down. Besides, I know my men. They'll get away with the
job. There's too much money in it for them to run any risk of losing out.
It's all going to happen so quick he won't be ready for anything."

"Well, you'll have your trouble for your pains. Cam'll explain everything
to the officers and he'll get by. He always does."

"Not this time. They've just made a rule that no excuses go. There've
been a lot of fellows coming back late drunk. And you see that's how we
mean to wind up. They are going to get him drunk, and then we'll see if
little Johnnie will go around with his nose in the air any longer! I'm
going to run down to the tavern late this evening to see the fun my
self!"

"You can't do it! Cam won't drink! It's been tried again and again. He'd
rather die!"

But the girl at the door had fled to her room on velvet shod feet and
closed her door, her face white with horror, her lips set with purpose,
her heart beating wildly. She must put a stop somehow to this diabolical
plot against him. Whether he was worthy or not they should not do this
thing to him! She rang for the maid and began putting on her hat and coat
and flinging a few things into a small bag. She glanced at her watch. It
was a quarter to five. Could she make it? If she only knew which way he
had gone! Would his mother have a telephone? Her eyes scanned the C
column hurriedly. Yes, there it was. She might have known he would not
allow her to be alone without a telephone.

The maid appeared at the door.

"Mary," she said, trying to speak calmly, "tell Thomas to have the gray
car ready at once. He needn't bring it to the house, I will come out the
back way. Please take this bag and two long coats out, and when I am gone
go to the library and ask the two gentlemen there to excuse me. Say that
I am suddenly called away to a friend in trouble. If Aunt Rhoda returns
soon tell her I will call her up later and let her know my plans. That is
all. I will be down in two or three minutes and I wish to start without
delay!"

Mary departed on her errand and Ruth went to the telephone and called up
the Cameron number.

The sadness of the answering voice struck her even in her haste. Her own
tone was eager, intimate, as she hastened to convey her message.

"Mrs. Cameron, this is Ruth Macdonald. Has your son left yet? I was
wondering if he would care to be taken to the train in our car?"

"Oh! he has _just gone_!" came a pitiful little gasp that had a sob at
the end of it. "He went in somebody's car and they were late coming. I'm
afraid he is going to miss his train and he has got to get it or he will
be in trouble! That is the last train that connects with Wilmington."

Ruth's heart leaped to her opportunity.

"Suppose we try to catch him then," proposed Ruth gleefully. "My car can
go pretty fast, and if he has missed the train perhaps we can carry him
on to Wilmington. Would you like to try?"

"Oh, could we?" the voice throbbed with eagerness.

"Hurry up then. My car is all ready. I'll be down there in three minutes.
We've no time to waste. Put on something warm!"

She hung up the receiver without waiting for further reply, and hurried
softly out of the room and down the back stairs.

Thomas was well trained. The cars were always in order. He was used to
Ruth's hurry calls, and when she reached the garage she found the car
standing in the back street waiting for her. In a moment more she was
rushing on her way toward the village without having aroused the
suspicion of the two men who so impatiently awaited her return. Mrs.
Cameron was ready, eager as a child, standing on the sidewalk with a
great blanket shawl over her arm and looking up the street for her.

It was not until they had swept through the village, over the bridge, and
were out on the broad highway toward Chester that Ruth began to realize
what a wild goose chase she had undertaken. Just where did she expect to
find them, anyway? It was now three minutes to five by the little clock
in the car and it was a full fifteen minutes' drive to Chester. The plan
had been to delay him on the way to the train, and there had been mention
of a short cut. Could that be the rough stony road that turned down
sharply just beyond the stone quarry? It seemed hardly possible that
anybody would attempt to run a car over that road. Surely John Cameron
knew the roads about here well enough to advise against it. Still, Ruth
knew the locality like a book and that was the only short cut thereabout.
If they had gone down there they might emerge at the other end just in
time to miss the train, and then start on toward Wilmington. Or they
might turn back and take the longer way if they found the short road
utterly impassable. Which should she take? Should she dare that rocky
way? If only there might be some tracks to guide her. But the road was
hard and dusty and told no tales of recent travelers. They skimmed down
the grade past the stone quarry, and the short cut flashed into view,
rough and hilly, turning sharply away behind a group of spruce trees. It
was thick woods beyond. If she went that way and got into any trouble
with her machine the chances were few that anyone would some along to
help. She had but a moment to decide, and something told her that the
long way was the safe one and shorter in the end. She swept on, her
engine throbbing with that pleasant purr of expensive well-groomed
machinery, the car leaping forward as if it delighted in the high speed.
The little woman by her side sat breathless and eager, with shining eyes,
looking ahead for her boy.

They passed car after car, and Ruth scanned the occupants keenly. Some
were filled with soldiers, but John Cameron was not among them. She began
to be afraid that perhaps she ought after all to have gone down that
hilly way and made sure they were not there. She was not quite sure where
that short road came out. If she knew she might run up a little way from
this further end.

The two women sat almost silent, straining their eyes ahead. They had
said hardly a word since the first greeting. Each seemed to understand
the thought of the other without words. For the present they had but one
common object, to find John Cameron.

Suddenly, as far ahead as they could see, a car darted out of the wooded
roadside, swung into their road and plunged ahead at a tremendous rate.
They had a glimpse of khaki uniforms, but it was much too far away to
distinguish faces or forms. Nevertheless, both women fastened their eyes
upon it with but one thought. Ruth put on more speed and forged ahead,
thankful that she was not within city lines yet, and that there was no
one about to remind her of the speed limit. Something told her that the
man she was seeking was in that car ahead.

It was a thrilling race. Ruth said no word, but she knew that her
companion was aware that she was chasing that car. Mrs. Cameron sat
straight and tense as if it had been a race of life and death, her cheeks
glowing and her eyes shining. Ruth was grateful that she did not talk.
Some women would have talked incessantly.

The other car did not go in to Chester proper at all, but veered away
into a branch road and Ruth followed, leaping over the road as if it had
been a gray velvet ribbon. She did not seem to be gaining on the car; but
it was encouraging that they could keep it still in sight. Then there
came a sharp turn of the road and it was gone. They were pulsing along
now at a tremendous rate. The girl had cast caution to the winds. She was
hearing the complacent sneer of Harry Wainwright as he boasted how they
would get John Cameron into trouble, and all the force of her strong
young will was enlisted to frustrate his plans.

It was growing dusk, and lights leaped out on the munition factories all
about them. Along the river other lights flashed and flickered in the
white mist that rose like a wreath. But Ruth saw nothing of it all. She
was straining her eyes for the little black speck of a car which she had
been following and which now seemed to be swallowed up by the evening.
She had not relaxed her speed, and the miles were whirling by, and she
had a growing consciousness that she might be passing the object of her
chase at any minute without knowing it. Presently they came to a junction
of three roads, and she paused. On ahead the road was broad and empty
save for a car coming towards them. Off to the right was a desolate way
leading to a little cemetery. Down to the left a smooth wooded road wound
into the darkness. There were sign boards up. Ruth leaned out and flashed
a pocket torch on the board. "TO PINE TREE INN, 7 Miles" it read. Did she
fancy it or was it really true that she could hear the distant sound of a
car among the pines?

"I'm going down this way!" she said decidedly to her companion, as if her
action needed an explanation, and she turned her car into the new road.

"But it's too late now," said Mrs. Cameron wistfully. "The train will be
gone, of course, even from Wilmington. And you ought to be going home.
I'm very wrong to have let you come so far; and it's getting dark. Your
folks will be worrying about you. That man will likely do his best to get
him to camp in time."

"No," said Ruth decidedly, "there's no one at home to worry just now, and
I often go about alone rather late. Besides, aren't we having a good
time? We're going a little further anyway before we give up."

She began to wonder in her heart if she ought not to have told somebody
else and taken Thomas along to help. It was rather a questionable thing
for her to do, in the dusk of the evening--to women all alone. But then,
she had Mrs. Cameron along and that made it perfectly respectable. But if
she failed now, what else could she do? Her blood boiled hotly at the
thought of letting Harry Wainwright succeed in his miserable plot. Oh,
for cousin La Rue! He would have thought a way out of this. If everything
else failed she would tell the whole story to Captain La Rue and beg him
to exonerate John Cameron. But that, of course, she knew would be hard to
do, there was so much red tape in the army, and there were so many
unwritten laws that could not be set aside just for private individuals.
Still, there must be a way if she had to go herself to someone and tell
what she had overheard. She set her pretty lips firmly and rode on at a
brisk pace down the dark road, switching on her head lights to seem the
way here in the woods. And then suddenly, just in time she jerked on the
brake and came to a jarring stop, for ahead of her a big car was sprawled
across the road, and there, rising hurriedly from a kneeling posture
before the engine, in the full blaze of her headlights, blinking and
frowning with anxiety, stood John Cameron!




X


The end of her chase came so unexpectedly that her wits were completely
scattered. Now that she was face to face with the tall soldier she had
nothing to say for her presence there. What would he think of her? How
could she explain her coming? She had undertaken the whole thing in such
haste that she had not planned ahead. Now she knew that from the start
she had understood that she must not explain how she came to be possessed
of any information concerning him. She felt a kind of responsible shame
for her old playmate Harry Wainright, and a certain loyalty toward her
own social set that prevented her from that, the only possible
explanation that could make her coming justifiable. So, now in the brief
interval before he had recognized them she must stage the next act, and
she found herself unable to speak, her throat dry, her lips for the
instant paralyzed. It was the jubilant little mother that stepped into
the crisis and did the most natural thing in the world:

"John! Oh John! It's really you! We've caught you!" she cried, and the
troubled young soldier peering into the dusk to discover if here was a
vehicle he might presume to commandeer to help him out of his predicament
lifted startled eyes to the two faces in the car and strode forward,
abandoning with a clang the wrench with which he had been working on the
car.

"Mother!" he said, a shade of deep anxiety in his voice. "What is the
matter? How came you to be here?"

"Why, I came after you," she said laughing like a girl. "We're going to
see that you get to camp in time. We've made pretty good time so far.
Jump in quick and we'll tell you the rest on the way. We mustn't waste
time."

Cameron's startled gaze turned on Ruth now, and a great wonder and
delight sprang up in his eyes. It was like the day when he went away on
the train, only more so, and it brought a rich flush into Ruth's cheeks.
As she felt the hot waves she was glad that she was sitting behind the
light.

"What! You?" he breathed wonderingly. "But this is too much! And after
the way I treated you!"

His mother looked wonderingly from one to the other:

"Get in, John, quick. We mustn't lose a minute. Something might delay us
later." It was plain she was deeply impressed with the necessity for the
soldier not to be found wanting.

"Yes, please get in quickly, and let us start. Then we can talk!" said
Ruth, casting an anxious glance toward the other car.

His hand went out to the door to open it, the wonder still shining in his
face, when a low murmur like a growl went up behind him.

Ruth looked up, and there in the full glare of the lights stood two burly
civilians and a big soldier:

"Oh, I say!" drawled the soldier in no very pleasant tone, "you're not
going to desert us that way! Not after Pass came out of his way for us! I
didn't think you had a yellow streak!"

Cameron paused and a troubled look came into his face. He glanced at the
empty back seat with a repression of his disappointment in the necessity.

"There's another fellow here that has to get back at the same time I do,"
he said looking at Ruth hesitatingly.

"Certainly. Ask him, of course." Ruth's voice was hearty and put the
whole car at his disposal.

"There's room for you, too, Chalmers," he said with relief. "And Passmore
will be glad to get rid of us I suspect. He'll be able to get home soon.
There isn't much the matter with that engine. If you do what I told you
to that carburetor you'll find it will go all right. Come on, Chalmers.
We ought to hurry!"

"No thanks! I stick to my friends!" said the soldier shortly.

"As you please!" said Cameron stepping on the running board.

"Not as _you_ please!" said a gruff voice, "I'm running this party and we
all go together? See?" A heavy hand came down upon Cameron's shoulder
with a mighty grip.

Cameron landed a smashing blow under the man's chin which sent him
reeling and sprang inside as Ruth threw in the clutch and sent her car
leaping forward. The two men in front were taken by surprise and barely
got out of the way in time, but instantly recovered their senses and
sprang after the car, the one nearest her reaching for the wheel.
Cameron, leaning forward, sent him rolling down the gully, and Ruth
turned the car sharply to avoid the other car which was occupying as much
of the road as possible, and left the third man scrambling to his knees
behind her. It was taking a big chance to dash past that car in the
narrow space over rough ground, but Ruth was not conscious of anything
but the necessity of getting away. In an instant they were back in the
road and flashing along through the dark.

"Mother, you better let me help you back here," said her son leaning
forward and almost lifting his mother into the back seat, then stepping
over to take her place beside Ruth.

"Better turn out your back lights!" he said in a quiet, steady voice.
"They might follow, you know. They're in an ugly mood. They've been
drinking."

"Then the car isn't really out of commission?"

"Not seriously."

"We're not on the right road, did you know? This road goes to The Pine
Tree Inn and Singleton!"

Cameron gave a low exclamation:

"Then they're headed for more liquor. I thought something was up."

"Is there a cross road back to the Pike?"

"I'm not sure. Probably. I know there is about three miles farther on,
almost to the Inn. This is an awful mess to have got you into! I'd rather
have been in the guard house than have this happen to you!"

"Please don't!" said Ruth earnestly. "It's an adventure! I'm enjoying it.
I'm not a doll to be kept in cotton wool!"

"I should say not!" said Cameron with deep admiration in his tone. "You
haven't shown yourself much of a doll to-night. Some doll, to run a car
the way you did in the face of all that. I'll tell you better what I
think when we get out of this!"

"They are coming, I believe!" said Ruth glancing back. "Don't you see a
light? Look!"

Mrs. Cameron was looking, too, through the little back window. Now she
spoke quietly:

"Wouldn't it be better to get out and slip up in the woods till they have
gone by?"

"No, mother!" said Cameron quickly, "just you sit quiet where you are and
trust us."

"Something awful might happen, John!"

"No, mother! Don't you worry!" he said in his gentle, manly tone. Then to
Ruth: "There's a big barn ahead there on your left. Keep your eye out for
a road around behind it. If we could disappear it's too dark for them to
know where we are. Would you care to turn out all the lights and let me
run the car? I don't want to boast but there isn't much of anything I
can't do with a car when I have to."

Instantly Ruth switched out every light and with a relieved "Please!"
gave up the wheel to him. They made the change swiftly and silently, and
Ruth took the post of lookout.

"Yes, I can see two lights. It might be someone else, mightn't it?"

"Not likely, on this road. But we're not taking any chances," and with
that the car bumped down across a gully and lurched up to a grassy
approach to a big stone barn that loomed above them, then slid down
another bank and passed close to a great haystack, whose clutching straw
fingers reached out to brush their faces, and so swept softly around to
the rear of the barn and stopped. Cameron shut off the engine instantly
and they sat in utter silence listening to the oncoming car.

"It's they, all right!" whispered Cameron softly. "That's Passmore's
voice. He converses almost wholly in choice profanity."

His mother's hand stole out to touch his shoulder and he reached around
and held it close.

"Don't tremble, mother, we're all safe!" he whispered in a tone so tender
that Ruth felt a shiver of pleasure pass over her for the mother who had
such a son. Also there was the instant thought that a man could not be
wholly "rotten" when he could speak to his mother in that tone.

There was a breathless space when the car paused on the road not far away
and their pursuers stood up and looked around, shouting to one another.
There was no mistaking their identity now. Ruth shivered visibly. One of
them got out of the car and came toward the barn. They could hear him
stepping over the stony roadside. Cameron laid a quiet hand of reassuring
protection on her arm that steadied her and made her feel wonderfully
safe once more, and strange to say she found herself lifting up another
queer little kind of a prayer. It had never been her habit to pray much
except in form. Her heart had seldom needed anything that money could not
supply.

The man had stumbled across the gully and up toward the barn. They could
hear him swearing at the unevenness of the ground, and Ruth held her
breath and prayed again. A moment more and he was fumbling about for the
barn door and calling for a flash light. Then, like the distant sound of
a mighty angel of deliverance came the rumble of a car in the distance.
The men heard it and took it for their quarry on ahead. They climbed into
their car again and were gone like a flash.

John Cameron did not wait for them to get far away. He set the car in
motion as soon as they were out of sight, and its expensive mechanism
obeyed his direction almost silently as he guided it around the barn,
behind the haystack and back again into the road over which they had just
come.

"Now!" he said as he put the car to its best speed and switched on its
headlights again. "Now we can beat them to it, I guess, if they come back
this way, which I don't think they will."

The car dashed over the ground and the three sat silent while they passed
into the woods and over the place where they had first met Cameron. Ruth
felt herself trembling again, and her teeth beginning to chatter from the
strain. Cameron seemed to realize her feeling and turned toward her:

"You've been wonderful!" he said flashing a warm look at her, "and you,
too, mother!" lifting his voice a little and turning his head toward the
back seat. "I don't believe any other two women in Bryne Haven could have
gone through a scene like that and kept absolutely still. You were
great!" There was that in his voice that lifted Ruth's heart more than
any praise she had ever received for anything. She wanted to make some
acknowledgment, but she found to her surprise that tears were choking her
throat so that she could not speak. It was the excitement, of course, she
told herself, and struggled to get control of her emotion.

They emerged from the woods and in sight of the Pike at last, and Cameron
drew a long breath of relief.

"There, I guess we can hold our own with anyone, now," he said settling
back in his seat, but relaxing none of his vigilance toward the car which
sped along the highway like a winged thing. "But it's time I heard how
you came to be here. I haven't been able to explain it, during the
intervals when I've had any chance at all to think about it."

"Oh, I just called up your mother to know if it would help you any to be
taken to your train," said Ruth quickly, "and she mentioned that she was
worried lest you would miss it; so I suggested that we try to catch you
and take you on to Wilmington or Baltimore or wherever you have to go. I
do hope this delay hasn't spoiled it all. How long does it take to go
from Baltimore to camp. I've taken the Baltimore trip myself in five
hours. It's only quarter past six yet, do you think we can make it?"

"But you can't go all the way to Baltimore!" he exclaimed. "What would
you and mother do at that time of night alone after I go to camp? You
see, it isn't as if I could stay and come back with you."

"Oh, we'll just go to a hotel in Baltimore, won't we, Mrs. Cameron? We'll
be all right if we only get you safe to camp. Do you think we can do it?"

"Oh, yes, we can do it all right with this car. But I'm quite sure I
ought not to let you do it just for me. What will your people think?"

"I've left word that I've gone to a friend in trouble," twinkled Ruth.
"I'll call them up when I get to Baltimore, and make it all right with
Auntie. She will trust me."

Cameron turned and looked at her wonderingly, reverently.

"It's wonderful that you should do this for me," he said in a low tone,
quite low, so that the watching wistful mother could not even guess what
he was saying.

"It's not in the least wonderful," said Ruth brightly. "Remember the
hedge and Chuck Woodcock!" She was beginning to get her self possession
again.

"You are paying that old score back in compound interest," said Cameron.

That was a wonderful ride rushing along beneath the stars, going back to
childhood's days and getting acquainted again where they left off. Ruth
forgot all about the cause of her wild chase, and the two young men she
had left disconsolate in her library at home; forgot her own world in
this new beautiful one, wherein her spirit really communed with another
spirit; forgot utterly what Wainwright had said about Cameron as more and
more through their talk she came to see the fineness of his character.

They flashed on from one little village to another, leaving one
clustering glimmer of lights in the distance only to pass to other
clustering groups. It was in their favor that there were not many other
travellers to dispute their way, and they were hindered very little.
Cameron had made the trip many times and knew the roads well. They did
not have to hesitate and enquire the way. They made good time. The clocks
were striking ten when they reached the outskirts of Baltimore.

"Now," said Ruth in a sweetly imperious tone, consulting her timepiece to
be sure she had counted the clock strokes correctly, "do you know what
you are going to do, Mr. Corporal? You are going to land your mother and
me at the nearest hotel, and take the car with you back to camp. You said
one of the fellows had his car down there, so I'm sure you'll be able to
find a place to put it over night. If you find a way to send the car back
to us in the morning, well and good. If not your mother and I will go
home by train and the chauffeur can come down to-morrow and bring back
the car; or, better still, you can drive yourself up the next time you
get leave off."

There was much argument about the matter within a brief space of time,
but in the end (which came in five minutes) Ruth had her way, and the
young soldier departed for his camp in the gray car with ample time to
make the short trip, leaving his mother and Ruth at a Baltimore hotel;
after having promised to call up in the morning and let them know what he
could do about the car.

Ruth selected a large double room and went at once to the telephone to
call up her aunt. She found to her relief that that good lady had not yet
returned from her day with a friend in the city, so that no explanations
would be necessary that night. She left word with the servant that she
was in Baltimore with a friend and would probably be at home the next day
sometime. Then she turned to find to her dismay that her companion was
sitting in a low-armed chair with tears running down her cheeks.

"Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed rushing over to her, "you are all worn out!"

"Not a bit of it!" sobbed the mother with a smile like sunshine through
her tears. "I was so happy I couldn't keep from crying. Don't you ever
get that way? I've just been watching you and thinking what a dear
beautiful child you are and how wonderful God has been to send you to
help my boy. Oh, it was so dreadful to me to think of him going down to
camp with those men! My dear, I smelt liquor on their breath when they
came for him, and I was just crying and praying about it when you called
me up. Of course, I knew my boy wouldn't drink, but so many accidents can
happen with automobiles when the driver is drunk! My dear, I never can
thank you enough!"

They were both too excited to sleep soon, but long after the mother was
asleep Ruth lay awake going over the whole day and wondering. There were
so many things about the incident of the afternoon and evening, now that
they were over, that were utterly out of accord with her whole life
heretofore. She felt intuitively that her aunt would never understand if
she were to explain the whole proceeding. There were so many laws of her
little world of conventionalities that she had transgressed, and so many
qualms of a belated conscience about whether she ought to have done it at
all. What would Cameron think of her, anyway? Her cheeks burned hot in
the dark over that question. Strange she had not thought of it at all
either beforehand or while she sat beside him during that wonderful ride!
And now the thing that Wainwright had said shouted itself out to her
ears: "Rotten! Rotten! Rotten!" like a dirge. Suppose he were? It
_couldn't_ be true. It _just couldn't_, but suppose he were? Well,
suppose he were! How was she hurt by doing a kind act? Having taken that
stand against all her former ideas Ruth had instant peace and drifted
into dreams of what she had been enjoying, the way suddenly lit by a
sleepy remembrance of Wetherill's declaration: "He won't drink! You can't
make him! It's been tried again and again!" There was evidence in his
favor. Why hadn't she remembered that before? And his mother! She had
been so sure of him!

The telephone bell wakened her with a message from camp. His voice
greeted her pleasantly with the word that it was all right, he had
reached camp in plenty of time, found a good place for the car, and it
would be at the hotel at nine o'clock. Ruth turned from the phone with a
vague disappointment. He had not said a word of thanks or good-bye or
anything, only that he must hurry. Not even a word to his mother. But
then, of course, men did not think of those little things, perhaps, as
women did, and maybe it was just as well for him to take it all as a
matter of course. It made it less embarrassing for her.

But when they went down to the car, behold he was in it!

"I got leave off for the morning," he explained smiling. "I told my
captain all about how you got me back in time when I'd missed the train
and he told me to see you as far as Wilmington and catch the noon train
back from there. He's a peach of a captain. If my lieutenant had been
there I wouldn't have got a chance to ask him. I was afraid of that last
night. But for good luck the lieutenant has a two days' leave this time.
He's a mess!"

Ruth looked at him musingly. Was Harry Wainwright the lieutenant?

They had a golden morning together, and talked of many things that welded
a friendship already well begun.

"Weren't you at all frightened last night?" asked Cameron once, looking
at the delicate beauty of the face beside him and noting the strength and
sweetness of it.

Mrs. Cameron was dozing in the back seat and they felt quite alone and
free. Ruth looked up at him frankly:

"Why, yes, I think I was for a minute or two while we were behind that
barn, but----Did you ever pray when you were in a trying situation?"

He looked down earnestly into her face, half startled at her words:

"Why, I don't know that I ever did. I'm not quite sure if it was
praying."

"Well, I don't know that I ever did before," she went on thoughtfully,
"but last night when those men got out of their car in front of the barn
so near us again, I found myself praying." She dropped her eyes half
embarrassed: "Just as if I were a frightened little child I found myself
saying: 'God help us! God help us!' And right away we heard that other
car coming and the men went away. It somehow seemed--well, strange! I
wondered if anybody else ever had an experience like that."

"I've heard of them," said Cameron gravely. "I've wondered sometimes
myself. Do you believe in God?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ruth quite firmly. "Of course. What use would there be in
anything if there wasn't a God?"

"But do you believe we humans can ever really--well, _find_ Him? On this
earth, I mean."

"Why, I don't know that I ever thought about it," she answered
bewildered. "Find Him? In what way do you mean?"

"Why, get in touch with Him? Get to know Him, perhaps. Be on such terms
with Him that one could call out in a time like last night, you know;
or--well, say in a battle! I've been thinking a lot about that
lately--naturally."

"Oh!" gasped Ruth softly, "of course. I hadn't thought about that much,
either. We've been so thoughtless--and--and sort of happy you know, just
like butterflies, we girls! I haven't realized that men were going out to
face _Death_!"

"It isn't that I'm afraid to die," said Cameron proudly lifting his chin
as if dying were a small matter, "not just the dying part. I reckon I've
been through worse than that a dozen times. That wouldn't last long.
It's--the other part. I have a feeling there'll be a little something
more expected of me than just to have tried to get the most fun out of
life. I've been thinking if there is a God He'd expect us to find it out
and make things straight between us somehow. I suppose I don't make
myself very plain. I don't believe I know myself just what I mean."

"I think I understand just a little," said Ruth, "I have never thought
about it before, but I'm going to now. It's something we ought to think
about, I guess. In a sense it's something that each one of us has to
think, whether we are going into battle or not, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, only we never realize it when things are going along
all right," said Cameron. "It seems queer that everybody that's ever
lived on this earth has had this question to face sooner or later and
most of them haven't done much about it. The few people who profess to
have found a way to meet it we call cranks, or else pick flaws in the way
they live; although it does seem to me that if I really found God so I
was sure He was there and cared about me, I'd manage to live a little
decenter life than some do."

They drifted into other topics and all too soon they reached Wilmington
and had to say good-bye. But the thought stayed with Ruth more or less
during the days that followed, and crept into her letters when she wrote
to Corporal Cameron, as she did quite often in these days; and still no
solution had come to the great question which was so like the one of old,
"What shall I do to be saved?" It came and went during the days that
followed, and now and again the fact that it had originated in a talk
with Cameron clashed badly in her mind with that word "Rotten" that
Wainwright had used about him. So that at last she resolved to talk to
her cousin, Captain La Rue, the next time he came up.

"Cousin Captain," she said, "do you know a boy at your camp from Bryne
Haven named John Cameron?"

"Indeed I do!" said the captain.

"What kind of a man is he?"

"The best young man I know in every way," answered the captain promptly.
"If the world were made up of men like him it would be a pretty good
place in which to live. Do you know him?"

"A little," said Ruth evasively, with a satisfied smile on her lips. "His
mother is in our Red Cross now. She thinks he's about right, of course,
but mothers usually do, I guess. I'll have to tell her what you said. It
will please her. He used to be in school with me years ago. I haven't
seen much of him since."

"Well, all I have to say is, improve your acquaintance if you get the
chance. He's worth ten to one of your society youths that loll around
here almost every time I come."

"Now, Cousin Captain!" chided Ruth. But she went off smiling and she kept
all his words in her heart.




XII


Corporal Cameron did not soon return to his native town. An epidemic of
measles broke out in camp just before Thanksgiving and pursued its
tantalizing course through his special barracks with strenuous vigor.
Quarantine was put on for three weeks, and was but lifted for a few hours
when a new batch of cases came down. Seven weeks more of isolation
followed, when the men were not allowed away from the barracks except for
long lonely walks, or gallops across camp. Even the mild excitements of
the Y.M.C.A. huts were not for them in these days. They were much shut up
to themselves, and latent tendencies broke loose and ran riot. Shooting
crap became a passion. They gambled as long as they had a dollar left or
could get credit on the next month's pay day. Then they gambled for their
shirts and their bayonets. All day long whenever they were in the
barracks, you could hear the rattle of the dice, and the familiar call of
"Phoebe," "Big Dick," "Big Nick," and "Little Joe." When they were not on
drill the men would infest the barracks for hours at a time, gathered in
crouching groups about the dice, the air thick and blue with cigarette
smoke; while others had nothing better to do than to sprawl on their cots
and talk; and from their talk Cameron often turned away nauseated. The
low ideals, the open boasting of shame, the matter-of-course conviction
that all men and most women were as bad as themselves, filled him with a
deep boiling rage, and he would close his book or throw down the paper
with which he was trying to while the hour, and fling forth into the cold
air for a solitary ride or walk.

He was sitting thus a cold cheerless December day with a French book he
had recently sent for, trying to study a little and prepare himself for
the new country to which he was soon going.

The door of the barracks opened letting in a rush of cold air, and closed
again quickly. A tall man in uniform with the red triangle on his arm
stood pulling off his woolen gloves and looking about him. Nobody paid
any attention to him. Cameron was deep in his book and did not even
notice him. Off at his left a new crap game was just starting. The
phraseology beat upon his accustomed ears like the buzz of bees or
mosquitos.

"I'll shoot a buck!"

"You're faded!"

"Come on now there, dice! Remember the baby's shoes!"

Cameron had ceased to hear the voices. He was struggling with a difficult
French idiom.

The stranger took his bearings deliberately and walked over to Cameron,
sitting down with a friendly air on the nearest cot.

"Would you be interested in having one of my little books?" he asked, and
his voice had a clear ring that brought Cameron's thoughts back to the
barracks again. He looked up for a curt refusal. He did not wish to be
bothered now, but something in the young man's earnest face held him.
Y.M.C.A. men in general were well enough, but Cameron wasn't crazy about
them, especially when they were young. But this one had a look about him
that proclaimed him neither a slacker nor a sissy. Cameron hesitated:

"What kind of a book?" he asked in a somewhat curt manner.

The boy, for he was only a boy though he was tall as a man, did not hedge
but went straight to the point, looking eagerly at the soldier:

"A pocket Testament," he said earnestly, and laid in Cameron's hand a
little book with limp leather covers. Cameron took it up half curiously,
and then looked into the other's face almost coldly.

"You selling them?" There was a covert sneer in his tone.

"No, no!" said the other quickly, "I'm giving them away for a promise.
You see, I had an accident and one of my eyes was put out a while ago. Of
course, they wouldn't take me for a soldier, and the next best thing was
to be all the help I could to the fellows that are going to fight. I
figure that book is the best thing I can bring you."

The manly simplicity of the boy held Cameron's gaze firmly fixed.

"H'm! In what way?" Cameron was turning the leaves curiously, enjoying
the silky fineness and the clear-cut print and soft leather binding. Life
in the barracks was so much in the rough that any bit of refinement was
doubly appreciated. He liked the feel of the little book and had a
curious longing to be its possessor.

"Why, it gives you a pretty straight line on where we're all going, what
is expected of us, and how we're to be looked out for. It shows one how
to know God and be ready to meet death if we have to."

"What makes you think anyone can know God on this earth?" asked Cameron
sharply.

"Because _I_ have," said the astonishing young man quite as if he were
saying he were related to the President or something like that.

"You have! How did you get to know Him?"

"Through that little book and by following its teachings."

Cameron turned over the pages again, catching familiar phrases here and
there as he had heard them sometimes in Sunday school years ago.

"You said something about a promise. What was it?"

"That you'll carry the book with you always, and read at least a verse in
it every day."

"Well, that doesn't sound hard," mused Cameron. "I guess I could stand
for that."

"The book is yours, then. Would you like to put your name to that
acceptance card in the front of the book?"

"What's that?" asked Cameron sharply as if he had discovered the fly in
the ointment for which he had all along been suspicious.

"Well, I call it the first step in knowing God. It's your act of
acceptance of the way God has planned for you to be forgiven and saved
from sin. If you sign that you say you will accept Christ as your
Saviour."

"But suppose you don't believe in Christ? I can't commit myself to
anything like that till I know about it?"

"Well, you see, that's the first move in getting to know God," said the
stranger with a smile. "God says he wants you to believe in his Son. He
asks that much of you if you want to get to know Him."

Cameron looked at him with bewildered interest. Was here a possible
answer to the questions of his heart. Why did this curious boy have a
light in his face that never came from earth or air? What was there about
his simple earnestness that was so convincing?

Another crap game had started up on the other side of them. A musically
inclined private was playing ragtime on the piano, and another was trying
to accompany him on the banjo. The air was hazier than ever. It seemed
strange to be talking of such things in these surroundings:

"Let's get out of here and walk!" said Cameron, "I'd like to understand
what you mean."

For two hours they tramped across the frozen ground and talked, arguing
this way and that, much drawn toward one another. At last in the solemn
background of a wall of whispering pines that shut them away from the
stark gray rows of barracks, Cameron took out his fountain pen and with
his foot on a prone log, opened the little book on his knee and wrote his
name and the date. Then he put it in his breast pocket with the solemn
feeling that he had taken some kind of a great step toward what his soul
had been longing to find. They knelt on the frozen ground beside that log
and the stranger prayed simply as if he were talking to a friend.
Thereafter that spot was hallowed ground to Cameron, to which he came
often to think and to read his little book.

That night he wrote to Ruth, telling in a shy way of his meeting with the
Testament man and about the little book. After he had mailed the letter
he walked back again to the spot among the pines and standing there
looked up to the stars and somehow committed himself again to the
covenant he had signed in the little book. It was then that he decided
that if he got home again after quarantine before he went over, he would
unite with the church. Somehow the stranger's talk that afternoon had
cleared away his objections. On his way back to the barracks across the
open field, up through the woods and over the crest of the hill toward
the road as he walked thinking deeply, suddenly from down below on the
road a familiar voice floated up to him. He parted the branches of oak
underbrush that made a screen between him and the road and glanced down
to get his bearings the better to avoid an unwelcome meeting. It was
inevitable when one came near Lieutenant Wainwright that he would
overhear some part of a conversation for he had a carrying voice which he
never sought to restrain.

"You're sure she's a girl with pep, are you? I don't want to bother with
any other kind. All right. Tell her to wait for me in the Washington
station to-morrow evening at eight. I'll look for her at the right of the
information booth. Tell her to wear a red carnation so I'll know her.
I'll show her a good time, all right, if she's the right sort. I'll trust
you that she's a good looker!"

Cameron could not hear the response, but the two were standing
silhouetted against a distant light, and something in the attitude of the
other man held his attention. For a moment he could not place him, then
it flashed across his mind that this was the soldier Chambers, who had
been the means of his missing the train at Chester on the memorable
occasion when Ruth Macdonald had saved the day. It struck him as a
strange thing that these two enemies of his whom he would have supposed
to be strangers to one another should be talking thus intimately. To make
sure of the man's identity he waited until the two parted and Wainwright
went his way, and then at a distance followed the other one until he was
quite certain. He walked back thoughtfully trying to make it out. Had
Wainwright then been at the bottom of his trouble that day? It began to
seem quite possible. And how had Ruth Macdonald happened to be so
opportunely present at the right moment? How had she happened to turn
down that road, a road that was seldom used by people going to Baltimore?
It was all very strange and had never been satisfactorily explained. Ruth
had evaded the question most plausibly every time he had brought it up.
Could it be that Wainwright had told her of a plot against him and she
had reached out to help him? His heart leaped at the thought. Then at
once he was sure that Wainwright had never told her, unless perhaps he
had told some tale against him, and made him the butt of a great joke.
Well, if he had she had cared enough to defend him and help him out
without ever giving away the fact that she knew. But here, too, lay a
thorn to disturb him. Why had Ruth Macdonald not told him the plain truth
if she knew? Was she trying to shield Harry Wainwright? Could she really
care for that contemptible scoundrel?

The thought in all its phases tore his mind and kept him awake for hours,
for the crux of the whole matter was that he was afraid that Ruth
Macdonald was going to marry Lieutenant Wainwright, and he knew that it
was not only for her sake, but for his also that he did not want
this--that it was agony even to contemplate.

He told himself, of course, that his interest was utterly unselfish. That
she was nothing to him but a friend and never would be, and that while it
might be hard to see her belong to some fine man and know he never might
be more than a passing friend, still it would not be like seeing her tied
to a rotten unprincipled fellow like Wainwright. The queer part of it was
that the word "rotten" in connection with his enemy played a great part
in his thoughts that night.

Somewhere in the watches of the night a memory came to him of the
covenant he had made that day and a vague wistful reaching of his heart
after the Christ to whom he was supposed to have surrendered his life. He
wondered if a Christ such as the stranger had claimed He had, would take
an interest in the affairs of Ruth Macdonald. Surely, such a flower of a
girl would be protected if there was protection for anyone! And somehow
he managed a queer little prayer for her, the first he had tried to put
up. It helped him a little, and toward morning he fell asleep.

A few days later in glancing through his newly acquired Testament he came
upon a verse which greatly troubled him for a time. His eye had caught it
at random and somehow it lodged in his mind:

"Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a
quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye."

Somehow the principle of that verse did not fit with his proud spirit. He
thought instantly of Wainwright's distasteful face and form. It seemed to
loom before him with a smug triumphal sneer. His enmity toward the fellow
had been of years standing, and had been deepened many times by
unforgetable acts. There was nothing about Wainwright to make one forgive
him. There was everything about him to make one want to punish him. When
the verse first confronted Cameron he felt a rising indignation that
there had been so much as a connection in his thoughts with his quarrel
with Wainwright. Why, anybody that knew him knew Wainwright was wrong.
God must think so, too. That verse might apply to little quarrels but not
to his feeling about the way Wainwright had treated him ever since they
were children. That was not to be borne, of course. Those words he had
called Cameron's father! How they made his blood boil even now! No, he
would not forbear nor forgive Wainwright. God would not want him to do
so. It was right he should be against him forever! Thus he dismissed the
suggestion and turned to the beginning of his testament, having
determined to find the Christ of whom the stranger had set him in search.

On the flyleaf of the little book the stranger had written a few words:

  "And ye shall find me, when ye shall search for me with all your
  heart."--Jeremiah xxix: 13.

That meant no half-way business. He could understand that. Well, he was
willing to put himself into the search fully. He understood that it was
worth a whole-hearted search if one were really to find a God as a
reward.

That night he wrote a letter to the minister in Bryne Haven asking for an
interview when next he was able to get leave from camp. In the meantime
he kept out of the way of Wainwright most adroitly, and found many ways
to avoid a meeting.

There had been three awful days when his "peach of a captain" about whom
he had spoken to Ruth, had been called away on some military errand and
Wainwright had been the commanding officer. They had been days of gall
and wormwood to Cameron, for his proud spirit could not bend to salute
the man whom he considered a scoundrel, and Wainwright took a fine
delight in using his power over his enemy to the limit. If it had not
been for the unexpected return of the captain a day earlier than planned,
Cameron might have had to suffer humiliations far greater than he did.

The bitterness between the two grew stronger, and Cameron went about with
his soul boiling with rage and rebellion. It was only when Ruth's letters
came that he forgot it all for a few minutes and lifted his thoughts to
higher things.




XIII


It was a clear, crisp day in March with just a smell of Spring in the
air, when Cameron finally united with the church.

He had taken a long time to think about it. Quarantine had extended
itself away into February, and while his company had had its regular
drill and hard work, there had been no leave from camp, no going to
Y.M.C.A. huts, and no visiting canteens. They had been shut up to the
company of the members of their own barracks, and there were times when
that palled upon Cameron to a distressing degree. Once when it had snowed
for three days, and rained on the top of it, and a chill wind had swept
into the cracks and crannies of the barracks, and poured down from the
ventilators in the roofs. The old stoves were roaring their best to keep
up good cheer, and the men lay on their cots in rows talking; telling
their vile stories, one after another, each to sound bigger than the
last, some mere lads boasting of wild orgies, and all finally drifting
into a chat on a sort of philosophy of the lowest ideals. Cameron lay on
his cot trying to sleep, for he had been on guard all night, and a letter
from Ruth was in his inside pocket with a comfortable crackle, but the
talk that drifted about him penetrated even his army blankets when he
drew them up over his ears.

The fellows had arrived at a point where a young lad from Texas had
stated with a drawl that all girls were more or less bad; that this talk
of the high standards of womanhood was all bosh; that there was one
standard for men and women, yes, but it was man's standard, not woman's,
as was written sometimes. White womanhood! Bah! There was no such thing!

In vain Cameron stuffed the blanket about his ears, resolutely shut his
eyes and tried to sleep. His very blood boiled in his veins. The letter
in his pocket cried out to be exonerated from this wholesale blackening.
Suddenly Cameron flung the blanket from him and sprang to his feet with a
single motion, a tall soldier with a white flame of wrath in his face,
his eyes flashing with fire. They called him in friendly derision the
"Silent Corporal" because he kept so much to himself, but now he blazed
forth at them:

"You lie, Kelly! You know you do! The whole lot of you are liars! You
know that rot you've been talking isn't true. You know that it's to cover
up your own vile deeds and to excuse your own lustful passions that you
talk this way and try to persuade your hearts and consciences that you
are no worse than the girls you have dishonored! But it isn't so and you
know it! There _are_ good women! There always have been and there always
will be! You, every one of you, know at least one. You are dishonoring
your mothers and your sisters when you talk that way. You are worse than
the beasts you are going out to fight. That's the rotten stuff they are
teaching. They call it Kultur! You'll never win out against them if you
go in that spirit, for it's their spirit and nothing more. You've got to
go clean! If there's a God in heaven He's in this war, and it's got to be
a clean war! And you've got to begin by thinking differently of women or
you're just as bad as the Huns!"

With that he seized his poncho, stamped out into the storm, and tramped
for two hours with a driving sleet in his face, his thoughts a fury of
holy anger against unholy things, and back of it all the feeling that he
was the knight of true womanhood. She had sent him forth and no man in
his presence should defile the thought of her. It was during that tramp
that he had made up his mind to ally himself with God's people. Whether
it would do any good in the long run in his search for God or not,
whether he even was sure he believed in God or not, he would do that much
if he were permitted.

His interview with the minister had not made things much plainer. He had
been told that he would grow into things. That the church was the
shepherd-fold of the soul, that he would be nurtured and taught, that by
and by these doubts and fears would not trouble him. He did not quite see
it, how he was to be nurtured on the distant battlefield of France, but
it was a mystical thing, anyway, and he accepted the statement and let it
go at that. One thing that stuck in his heart and troubled him deeply was
the way the minister talked to him about love and fellowship with his
fellow men. As a general thing, Cameron had no trouble with his
companions in life, but there were one or two, notably Wainwright and a
young captain friend of his at camp, named Wurtz, toward whom his enmity
almost amounted to hatred.

He was not altogether sure that the ministers suggestion that he might
love the sinner and hate the sin would hold good with regard to
Wainwright; but there had been only a brief time before the communion
service and he had had to let the matter go. His soul was filled with a
holy uplifting as he stepped out from the pastor's study and followed
into the great church.

It had startled him just a little to find so many people there. In
contemplating this act of allying himself with God he had always thought
of it as being between himself and God, with perhaps the minister and an
elder or two. He sat down in the place indicated for him much disturbed
in spirit. It had always been an annoyance to him to be brought to the
notice of his fellow townsmen, and a man in uniform in these days was
more than ever an object of interest. His troubled gaze was downward
during the opening hymns and prayers. But when he came to stand and take
his vows he lifted his eyes, and there, off at one side where the seats
grouped in a sort of transept, he caught a glimpse of Ruth Macdonald
standing beside her tall Captain-cousin who was home for the day, and
there was a light in her eyes that steadied him and brought back the
solemnity of the moment once more. It thrilled him to think she was
there. He had not realized before that this must be her church. In fact,
he had not thought of it as being any church in particular, but as being
a part of the great church invisible to which all God's children
belonged. It had not occurred to him until that morning, either, that his
mother might be hurt that he had not chosen her church. But when he spoke
to her about it she shook her head and smiled. She was only glad of what
he was doing. There were no regrets. She was too broad minded to stop
about creeds. She was sitting there meekly over by the wall now, her
hands folded quietly in her lap, tears of joy in her eyes. She, too, had
seen Ruth Macdonald and was glad, but she wondered who the tall captain
by her side might be.

It happened that Cameron was the only person uniting by confession at
that time, for the quarantine had held him beyond the time the pastor had
spoken of when so many were joining, and he stood alone, tall and
handsome in his uniform, and answered in a clear, deep voice: "I do," "I
will!" as the vows were put upon him one by one. Every word he meant from
his heart, a longing for the God who alone could satisfy the longings of
his soul.

He thrilled with strange new enthusiasm as the congregation of church
members were finally called upon to rise and receive him into their
fellowship, and looking across he saw Ruth Macdonald again and his
beloved Captain La Rue standing together while everybody sang:

                    Blest be the tie that binds
                      Our hearts in Christian love;
                    The fellowship of kindred minds
                      Is like to that above.

But when the bread and the wine had been partaken of, the solemn prayer
of dedication spoken, the beautiful service was over, and the rich tones
of the organ were swelling forth, he suddenly felt strange and shy among
all that crowd of people whom he knew by sight only. The elders and some
of the other men and women shook hands with him, and he was trying to
slip away and find his mother when a kindly hand was laid upon his
shoulder and there stood the captain with Ruth beside him, and a warm
hand shake of welcome into the church.

"I'm so glad," he said, "that you have taken this step. You will never
regret it, Cameron. It is good that we can be of the same company here if
we have failed in other ways." Then turning to Ruth he said:

"I didn't tell you, did I, Ruth, that I've failed in trying to get
Cameron transferred to my division? I did everything I could, but they've
turned down my application flatly. It seems like stupidity to me, for it
was just the place for which he was most fitted, but I guess it's because
he was too much of a man to stay in a quiet sector and do such work. If
he had been maimed or half blinded they might have considered him. They
need him in his present place, and I am the poorer for it."

There was a glow in Ruth's eyes as she put her hand in Cameron's and said
simply: "I'm glad you're one of us now," that warmed his heart with a
great gladness.

"I didn't know you were a member," he said wonderingly.

"Why, yes, I've been a member since I was fourteen," she said, and
suddenly he felt that he had indeed come into a holy and blessed
communion. If he had not yet found God, at least he was standing on the
same ground with one of his holy children.

That was the last time he got home before he sailed. Shipping quarantine
was put on his company the very next week, the camp was closed to
visitors, and all passes annulled. The word came that they would be going
over in a few days, but still they lingered, till the days grew into
three weeks, and the Spring was fully upon them in all its beauty,
touching even the bare camp with a fringe of greenness and a sprinkle of
wild bloom in the corners where the clearing had not been complete.

Added to his other disappointments, a direful change had taken place at
camp. The "peach of a captain" had been raised to the rank of major and
Captain Wurtz had been put in his place. It seemed as if nothing worse
could be.

The letters had been going back and forth rather often of late, and
Cameron had walked to the loneliest spot in the camp in the starlight and
had it out with himself. He knew now that Ruth Macdonald was the only
girl in all the world to him. He also knew that there was not a chance in
a thousand that he could ever be more to her than he now was. He knew
that the coming months held pain for him, and yet, he would not go back
and undo this beautiful friendship, no, not for all the pain that might
come. It was worth it, every bit.

He had hoped to get one more trip home, and she had wanted to see the
camp, had said that perhaps when the weather got warmer she might run
down some day with his mother, but now the quarantine was on and that was
out of the question. He walked alone to the places he would have liked to
show her, and then with a sigh went to the telephone office and waited
two hours till he got a connection through to her house, just to tell her
how sorry he was that he could not come up as he had expected and take
that ride with her that she had promised in her last letter. Somehow it
comforted him to hear her voice. She had asked if there would be no
lifting of the quarantine before they left, no opportunity to meet him
somewhere and say good-bye, and he promised that he would let her know if
any such chance came; but he had little hope, for company after company
were being sent away in the troop trains now, hour after hour, and he
might be taken any minute.

Then one day he called her up and told her that the next Saturday and
Sunday the camp was to be thrown open to visitors, and if she could come
down with his mother he would meet them at the Hostess' House and they
could spend the day together. Ruth promptly accepted the invitation and
promised to arrange it all with his mother and take the first train down
Saturday morning. After he had hung up the receiver and paid his bill he
walked away from the little telephone headquarters in a daze of joy. She
had promised to come! For one whole day he would have her to himself! She
was willing to come with his mother! Then as he passed the officers'
headquarters it occurred to him that perhaps she had other interests in
coming to camp than just to see him, and he frowned in the darkness and
his heart burned hot within him. What if they should meet Wainwright! How
the day would be spoiled!

With this trouble on his mind he went quite early in the morning down as
near to the little trolley station as he could get, for since the
quarantine had been put on no soldiers without a special pass were
allowed beyond a certain point, which was roped off about the trolley
station. Sadly, Cameron took his place in the front rank, and stood with
folded arms to wait. He knew he would have some time to stand before he
could look for his guests, but the crowd was always so great at the train
times that it was well to get a good place early. So he stood and thought
his sad thoughts, almost wishing he had not asked them to come, as he
realized more and more what unpleasantness might arise in case Wainwright
should find out who were his guests. He was sure that the lieutenant was
not above sending him away on a foolish errand, or getting him into a
humiliating situation before his friends.

As he stood thus going over the situation and trying to plan how he might
spirit his guests away to some pleasant spot where Wainwright would not
be likely to penetrate, he heard the pompous voice of the lieutenant
himself, and slipping behind a comrade turned his face away so that he
would not be recognized.

"Yes, I got special leave for three days!" proclaimed the satisfied
voice, and Cameron's heart bounded up so joyously that he would have
almost been willing then and there to put aside his vow not to salute
him, and throw his arms about his enemy. Going away for three days. That
meant two things! First that Wainwright would not have to be thought of
in making his plans, and second that they were evidently not going to
move before Wainwright got back. They surely would not have given him
leave if the company was to be sent away that day. A third exultant
thought followed; Wainwright was going home presumably to see Ruth and
Ruth would not be there! Perhaps, oh _perhaps_ he might be able to
persuade her and his mother to stay over Sunday! He hardly dared to hope,
however, for Ruth Macdonald might think it presumptuous in him to suggest
it, and again she might wish to go home to meet Wainwright. And, too,
where could they sleep if they did stay. It was hopeless, of course. They
would have to go back to Baltimore or to Washington for the night and
that would be a hard jaunt.

However, Ruth Macdonald had thought of such a possibility herself, and
when she and Mrs. Cameron stepped down from the Philadelphia train at the
small country station that had suddenly become an important point because
of the great camp that had sprung up within a stone's throw of it, she
looked around enquiringly at the little cottage homes in sight and said
to her companion:

"Would it be very dreadful in us to discover if there is some place here
where we could stay over night in case John's company does not go just
yet and we find we would be allowed to see him again on Sunday?"

She knew by the sudden lighting of the mother's wistful face that she had
read aright the sighs half stifled that she had heard on the train when
the mother had thought she was not noticing.

"Oh, do you suppose we could stay?" The voice was full of yearning.

"Well, we can find out, at least. Anyhow, I'm going in here to see
whether they would take us in case we could. It looks like a nice neat
place."

Ruth pulled open the gate, ran up the steps of the pleasant porch shaded
with climbing roses, and knocked timidly at the open door.

A broad, somewhat frowsy woman appeared and surveyed her coolly with that
apprising glance that a native often gives to a stranger; took in the
elegant simplicity of her quiet expensive gown and hat, lingering with a
jealous glance on the exquisite hand bag she carried, then replied
apathetically to Ruth's question:

"No, we're all full. We ain't got any room. You might try down to the
Salvation Army Hut. They got a few rooms down there. It's just been
built. They might take you in. It's down the road a piece, that green
building to the right. You can't miss it. You'll see the sign."

Ruth caught her breath, thanked her and hastened back to her companion.
Salvation Army! That was eccentric, queer, but it would be perfectly
respectable! Or would it? Would Aunt Rhoda disapprove very much? Somehow
the Salvation Army was associated in her mind with slums and drunkards.
But, at least, they might be able to direct her to a respectable place.

Mrs. Cameron, too, looked dubious. This having a society girl to
chaperone was new business for her. She had never thought much about it,
but somehow she would hardly have associated the Salvation Army with the
Macdonald family in any way. She paused and looked doubtfully at the
unpretentious little one-story building that stretched away capaciously
and unostentatiously from the grassy roadside.

"SALVATION ARMY" arose in bold inviting letters from the roof, and "Ice
Cold Lemonade" beckoned from a sign on the neat screen door. Ruth was a
bit excited.

"I'm going in!" she declared and stepped within the door, Mrs. Cameron
following half fearfully.

The room which they entered was long and clean and pleasant. Simple white
curtains draped the windows, many rush-bottomed big rocking chairs were
scattered about, a long desk or table ran along one side of the room with
writing materials, a piano stood open with music on its rack, and shelves
of books and magazines filled the front wall.

Beyond the piano were half a dozen little tables, white topped and ready
for a hungry guest. At the back a counter ran the width of the room, with
sandwiches and pies under glass covers, and a bright coffee urn steaming
suggestively at one end. Behind it through an open door was a view of the
kitchen, neat, handy, crude, but all quite clean, and through this door
stepped a sweet-faced woman, wiping her hands on her gingham apron and
coming toward them with a smile of welcome as if they were expected
guests. It was all so primitive, and yet there was something about it
that bore the dignity of refinement, and puzzled this girl from her
sheltered home. She was almost embarrassed to make her enquiry, but the
hearty response put her quite at her ease, as if she had asked a great
favor of another lady in a time of stress:

"I'm so sorry, but our rooms are all taken," the woman waved a slender
hand toward the long side of the room and Ruth noticed for the first time
that a low partition ran the length of the room at one side with doors.
Mechanically she counted them, eight of them, neat, gray-painted doors.
Could these be rooms? How interesting! She had a wild desire to see
inside them. Rooms! They were more like little stalls, for the partitions
did not reach all the way to the ceiling. A vision of her own spacious
apartment at home came floating in vague contrast. Then one of the doors
opposite her opened as its occupant, a quiet little elderly woman, came
out, and she had a brief glimpse of the white curtained window, the white
draped comfortable looking bed, a row of calico curtained hooks on the
wall, and a speck of a wash stand with tin pitcher and basin in the
corner, all as clean and new as the rest of the place. She swiftly
decided to stay here if there was any chance. Another look at the sweet
face of the presiding woman who was trying to make them understand how
crowded everything was, and how many mothers there were with sons who
were going that night or the next, and who wanted to be near them,
determined her. She was saying there was just a chance in case a certain
mother from Boston who had written her did not arrive at five o'clock:

"But we ought not to take a chance," said Cameron's mother, looking at
the eager faced girl with a cautious wistfulness. "What could we do if
night came and we had no place to stay?"

Ruth cast her eyes about.

"Couldn't we sit in a couple of those rocking chairs all night?" she
asked eagerly.

The Salvation Army woman laughed affectionately as if she had found a
kindred spirit:

"Why, dearie, I could give you a couple of cots out here in the dining
room if you didn't mind. I wouldn't have pillows, but I think I could get
you some blankets."

"Then we'll stay," said Ruth triumphantly before Mrs. Cameron could
protest, and went away feeling that she had a new friend in the wise
sweet Salvation Army woman. In five minutes more they were seated in the
trolley on their way into the camp.

"I'm afraid your people would not like you to stay in such a place,"
began Mrs. Cameron dubiously, though her eyes shone with a light that
belied her words.

"Nonsense!" said Ruth with a bewildering smile, "it is as clean as a pin
and I'm very much excited about staying there. It will be an adventure.
I've never known much about the Salvation Army before, except that they
are supposed to be very good people."

"There might be some rough characters----"

"Well, I guess they can't hurt us with that good woman around, and
anyhow, you're going to stay till your son goes!" laughingly declared
Ruth.

"Well, we'll see what John says," said his mother with a sigh, "I can't
let you do anything--questionable."

"Please, Mrs. Cameron," pleaded Ruth, "let us forget things like that
this trip and just have a happy time."

The mother smiled, sadly, wistfully, through a mist of tears. She could
not help thinking how wonderful it would have been if there had been no
war and her dear boy could have had this sweet wholesome girl for a
friend.




XIV


The sun was shining gloriously when the two stepped from the trolley at
the little camp station and looked bewildered about them at the swarms of
uniforms and boyish faces, searching for their one. They walked through
the long lane lined with soldiers, held back by the great rope and
guarded by Military Police. Each crowding eager soldier had an air of
expectancy upon him, a silence upon him that showed the realization of
the parting that was soon to be. In many faces deep disappointment was
growing as the expected ones did not arrive. Ruth's throat was filled
with oppression and tears as she looked about and suddenly felt the grip
of war, and realized that all these thousands were bearing this
bitterness of parting, perhaps forever. Death stalking up and down a
battlefield, waiting to take his pick of them! This was the picture that
flashed before her shrinking eyes.

It was almost like a solemn ceremony, this walking down the lane of
silent waiting soldiers, to be claimed by their one. It seemed to bring
the two young people nearer in heart than they had ever been before, when
at the end of the line Cameron met them with a salute, kissed his mother,
and then turned to Ruth and took her hand with an earnest grave look of
deep pleasure in his eyes.

He led them up under the big trees in front of the Hostess' House while
all around were hushed voices, and teary eyes. That first moment of
meeting was the saddest and the quietest of the day with everybody,
except the last parting hour when mute grief sat unchecked upon every
face, and no one stopped to notice if any man were watching, but just
lived out his real heart self, and showed his mother or his sister or his
sweetheart how much he loved and suffered.

That was a day which all the little painted butterflies of temptation
should have been made to witness. There were no painted ladies coming
through the gates that day. This was no time for friendships like that.
Death was calling, and the deep realities of life stood out and demanded
attention.

The whole thing was unlike anything Ruth had ever witnessed before. It
was a new world. It was as if the old conventions which had heretofore
hedged her life were dropped like a garment revealing life as it really
was, and every one walked unashamed, because the great sorrow and need of
all had obliterated the little petty rules of life, and small passions
were laid aside, while hearts throbbed in a common cause.

He waited on them like a prince, seeming to anticipate every need, and
smooth every annoyance. He led them away from the throng to the quiet
hillside above the camp where spring had set her dainty foot-print. He
spread down his thick army blanket for them to sit upon and they held
sweet converse for an hour or two. He told them of camp life and what was
expected to be when they started over, and when they reached the other
side.

His mother was brave and sensible. Sometimes the tears would brim over at
some suggestion of what her boy was soon to bear or do, but she wore a
smile as courageous and sweet as any saint could wear. The boy saw and
grew tender over it. A bird came and sang over their heads, and the
moment was sweet with springing things and quiet with the brooding
tenderness of parting that hung over the busy camp. Ruth had one awful
moment of adjustment when she tried to think how her aunt Rhoda would
look if she could see her now; then she threw the whole thing to the
winds and resolved to enjoy the day. She saw that while the conventions
by which she had been reared were a good thing in general, perhaps, they
certainly were not meant to hamper or hinder the true and natural life of
the heart, or, if they were, they were not _good_ things; and she entered
into the moment with her full sympathy. Perhaps Aunt Rhoda would not
understand, but the girl she had brought up knew that it was good to be
here. Her aunt was away from home with an invalid friend on a short trip
so there had been no one to question Ruth's movements when she decided to
run down to Washington with a "friend from the Red Cross" and
incidentally visit the camp a little while.

He had them over the camp by and by, to the trenches and dummies, and all
the paraphernalia of war preparation. Then they went back to the Hostess'
House and fell into line to get dinner. As Cameron stood looking down at
Ruth in the crowded line in the democratic way which was the only way
there was, it came over them both how strange and wonderful it was that
they two who had seen each other so little in their lives and who had
come from such widely separated social circles should be there together
in that beautiful intimacy. It came to them both at once and flashed its
thought from one pair of eyes to the other and back again. Cameron looked
deep into her thoughts then for a moment to find out if there was a
shadow of mortification or dismay in her face; but though she flushed
consciously her sweet true eyes gave back only the pleasure she was
feeling, and her real enjoyment of the day. Then instantly each of them
felt that another crisis had been passed in their friendship, another
something unseen and beautiful had happened that made this moment most
precious--one never to be forgotten no matter what happened in the
future, something they would not have missed for any other experience.

It was Ruth who announced suddenly, late in the afternoon, during a
silence in which each one was thinking how fast the day was going:

"Did you know that we were going to stay over Sunday?"

Cameron's face blazed with joyful light:

"Wonderful!" he said softly, "do you mean it? I've been trying to get
courage all day to suggest it, only I don't know of any place this side
of Washington or Baltimore where you can be comfortable, and I hate to
think of you hunting around a strange city late at night for
accommodations. If I could only get out to go with you----!"

"It isn't necessary," said Ruth quickly, "we have our accommodations all
arranged for. Your mother and I planned it all out before we came. But
are you sure we can get into camp to-morrow?"

"Yes, I'm almost certain we can get you passes by going up to officers'
headquarters and applying. A fellow in our company told me this morning
he had permission for his mother and sister to come in to-morrow. And we
are not likely to leave before Monday now, for this morning our
lieutenant went away and I heard him say he had a three days' leave. They
wouldn't have given him that if they expected to send us before he got
back, at least not unless they recalled him--they might do that."

"Is that the lieutenant that you called a 'mess' the other day?" asked
Ruth with twinkling eyes.

"Yes," said Cameron turning a keen, startled glance at her, and wondering
what she would say if she knew it was Wainwright he meant.

But she answered demurely:

"So he's away, is he? I'm glad. I was hoping he would be."

"Why?" asked Cameron.

"Oh, I thought he might be in the way," she smiled, and changed the
subject, calling attention to the meadow lark who was trilling out his
little ecstasy in the tall tree over their head.

Cameron gave one glance at the bird and then brought his gaze back to the
sweet upturned face beside him, his soul thrilling with the wonder of it
that she should be there with him!

"But you haven't told me where you have arranged to stay. Is it Baltimore
or Washington? I must look up your trains. I hope you will be able to
stay as late as possible. They're not putting people out of camp until
eight o'clock to-night."

"Lovely!" said Ruth with the eagerness of a child. "Then we'll stay till
the very last trolley. We're not going to either Baltimore or Washington.
We're staying right near the camp entrance in that little town at the
station where we landed, I don't remember what you call it. We got
accommodations this morning before we came into camp."

"But where?" asked Cameron anxiously. "Are you sure it's respectable? I'm
afraid there isn't any place there that would do at all."

"Oh, yes there is," said Ruth. "It's the Salvation Army 'Hut,' they
called it, but it looks more like a barracks, and there's the dearest
little woman in charge!"

"John, I'm afraid it isn't the right thing to let her do it!" put in his
mother anxiously. "I'm afraid her aunt wouldn't like it at all, and I'm
sure she won't be comfortable."

"I shall _love_ it!" said Ruth happily, "and my aunt will never know
anything about it. As for comfort, I'll be as comfortable as you are, my
dear lady, and I'm sure you wouldn't let comfort stand in the way of
being with your boy." She smiled her sweet little triumph that brought
tears to the eyes of the mother; and Cameron gave her a blinding look of
gratitude and adoration. So she carried her way.

Cameron protested no more, but quietly enquired at the Hostess' House if
the place was all right, and when he put them on the car at eight o'clock
he gave Ruth's hand a lingering pressure, and said in a low tone that
only she could hear, with a look that carried its meaning to her heart:

"I shall never forget that you did this for my mother--and me!"

The two felt almost light-hearted in comparison to their fellow
travellers, because they had a short reprieve before they would have to
say good-bye. But Ruth sat looking about her, at the sad-eyed girls and
women who had just parted from their husbands and sons and sweethearts,
and who were most of them weeping, and felt anew the great burden of the
universal sorrow upon her. She wondered how God could stand it. The old
human question that wonders how God can stand the great agonies of life
that have to come to cure the world of its sin, and never wonders how God
can stand the sin! She felt as if she must somehow find God and plead
with Him not to do it, and again there came that longing to her soul, if
she only knew God intimately! Cameron's question recurred to her
thoughts, "_Could_ anyone on this earth know God? Had anyone ever known
Him? Would the Bible say anything about it?" She resolved to read it
through and find out.

The brief ride brought them suddenly into a new and to Ruth somewhat
startling environment.

As they followed the grassy path from the station to their abiding place
two little boys in full military uniform appeared out of the tall grass
of the meadows, one as a private, the other as an officer. The small
private saluted the officer with precision and marched on, turning after
a few steps to call back, "Mother said we might sleep in the tent
to-night! The rooms are all full." The older boy gave a whoop of delight
and bounded back toward the building with a most unofficer-like walk, and
both disappeared inside the door. A tiny khaki dog-tent was set up in the
grass by the back door, and in a moment more the two young soldiers
emerged from the back door with blankets and disappeared under the brown
roof with a zest that showed it was no hardship to them to camp out for
the night.

There were lights in the long pleasant room, and people. Two soldiers
with their girls were eating ice cream at the little tables, and around
the piano a group of officers and their wives was gathered singing
ragtime. Ruth's quick glance told her they were not the kind she cared
for, and--how could people who were about to part, perhaps forever, stand
there and sing such abominable nonsense! Yet--perhaps it was their way of
being brave to the last. But she wished they would go.

The sweet-faced woman of the morning was busy behind the counter and
presently she saw them and came forward:

"I'm sorry! I hoped there would be a room, but that woman from Boston
came. I can only give you cots out here, if you don't mind."

Mrs. Cameron looked around in a half-frightened manner, but Ruth smiled
airily and said that would be all right.

They settled down in the corner between the writing table and book case
and began to read, for it was obvious that they could not retire at
present.

The little boys came running through and the officers corralled them and
clamored for them to sing. Without any coaxing they stood up together and
sang, and their voices were sweet as birds as they piped out the words of
a popular song, one singing alto, the little one taking the high soprano.
Ruth put down her book and listened, wondering at the lovely expressions
on the two small faces. They made her think of the baby-seraphs in
Michael Angelo's pictures. Presently they burst into a religious song
with as much gusto as they had sung the ragtime. They were utterly
without self-consciousness, and sang with the fervor of a preacher. Yet
they were regular boys, for presently when they were released they went
to turning hand springs and had a rough and tumble scuffle in the corner
till their mother called them to order.

In a few minutes more the noisy officers and their wives parted, the men
striding off into the night with a last word about the possibility of
unexpected orders coming, and a promise to wink a flash light out of the
car window as the troop train went by in case they went out that night.
The wives went into one of the little stall-rooms and compared notes
about their own feelings and the probability of the ----Nth Division
leaving before Monday.

Then the head of the house appeared with a Bible under his arm humming a
hymn. He cast a keen pleasant glance at the two strangers in the corner,
and gave a cheery word to his wife in answer to her question:

"Yes, we had a great meeting to-night. A hundred and twenty men raised
their hands as wanting to decide for Christ, and two came forward to be
prayed for. It was a blessed time. I wish the boys had been over there to
sing. The meeting was in the big Y.M.C.A. auditorium. Has Captain Hawley
gone yet?"

"Not yet." His wife's voice was lowered. She motioned toward one of the
eight gray doors, and her husband nodded sadly.

"He goes at midnight, you know. Poor little woman!"

Just then the door opened and a young soldier came out, followed by his
wife, looking little and pathetic with great dark hollows under her eyes,
and a forced smile on her trembling lips.

The soldier came over and took the hand of the Salvation Army woman:

"Well, I'm going out to-night, Mother. I want to thank you for all you've
done for my little girl"--looking toward his wife--"and I won't forget
all the good things you've done for _me_, and the sermons you've
preached; and when I get over there I'm going to try to live right and
keep all my promises. I want you to pray for me that I may be true. I
shall never cease to thank the Lord that I knew you two."

The Salvationists shook hands earnestly with him, and promised to pray
for him, and then he turned to the children:

"Good-bye, Dicky, I shan't forget the songs you've sung. I'll hear them
sometimes when I get over there in battle, and they'll help to keep me
true."

But Dicky, not content with a hand shake swarmed up the leg and back of
his tall friend as if he had been a tree, and whispered in a loud
confidential child-whisper:

"I'm a goin' to pray fer you, too, Cap'n Hawley. God bless you!"

The grown-up phrases on the childish lips amused Ruth. She watched the
little boy as he lifted his beautiful serious face to the responsive look
of the stranger, and marvelled. Here was no parrot-like repetition of
word she had heard oft repeated by his elders; the boy was talking a
native tongue, and speaking of things that were real to him. There was no
assumption of godliness nor conceit, no holier-than-thou smirk about the
child. It was all sincere, as a boy would promise to speak to his own
father about a friend's need. It touched Ruth and tears sprang to her
eyes.

All the doubts she had had about the respectability of the place had
vanished long ago. There might be all kinds of people coming and going,
but there was a holy influence here which made it a refuge for anyone,
and she felt quite safe about sleeping in the great barn-like room so
open. It was as if they had happened on some saint's abode and been made
welcome in their extremity.

Presently, one by one the inmates of the rooms came in and retired. Then
the cots were brought out and set up, little simple affairs of canvas and
steel rods, put together in a twinkling, and very inviting to the two
weary women after the long day. The cheery proprietor called out, "Mrs.
Brown, haven't you an extra blanket in your room?" and a pleasant voice
responded promptly, "Yes, do you want it?"

"Throw it over then, please. A couple of ladies hadn't any place to go.
Anybody else got one?"

A great gray blanket came flying over the top of the partition, and down
the line another voice called: "I have one I don't need!" and a white
blanket with pink stripes followed, both caught by the Salvationist, and
spread upon the little cots. Then the lights were turned out one by one
and there in the shelter of the tall piano, curtained by the darkness the
two lay down.

Ruth was so interested in it all and so filled with the humor and the
strangeness of her situation that tired as she was she could not sleep
for a long time.

The house settled slowly to quiet. The proprietor and his wife talked
comfortably about the duties of the next day, called some directions to
the two boys in the puppy tent, soothed their mosquito bites with a
lotion and got them another blanket. The woman who helped in the kitchen
complained about not having enough supplies for morning, and that
contingency was arranged for, all in a patient, earnest way and in the
same tone in which they talked about the meetings. They discussed their
own boy, evidently the brother of the small boys, who had apparently just
sailed for France as a soldier a few days before, and whom the wife had
gone to New York to see off, and they commended him to their Christ in
little low sentences of reassurance to each other. Ruth could not help
but hear much that was said, for the rooms were all open to sounds, and
these good people apparently had nothing to hide. They spoke as if all
their household were one great family, equally interested in one another,
equally suffering and patient in the necessities of this awful war.

In another tiny room the Y.M.C.A. man who had been the last to come in
talked in low tones with his wife, telling her in tender, loving tones
what to do about a number of things after he was gone.

In a room quite near there were soft sounds as of suppressed weeping.
Something made Ruth sure it was the mother who had been spoken of earlier
in the evening as having come all the way from Texas and arrived too late
to bid her boy good-bye.

Now and again the sound of a troop train stirred her heart to untold
depths. There is something so weird and sorrowful about its going, as if
the very engine sympathized, screaming its sorrow through the night. Ruth
felt she never would forget that sound. Out there in the dark Cameron
might be even then slipping past them out into the great future. She
wished she could dare ask that sweet faced woman, or that dear little boy
to pray for _him_. Maybe she would next day.

The two officer's wives seemed to sit up in bed and watch the train. They
had discovered a flash light, and were counting the signals, and quite
excited. Ruth's heart ached for them. It was a peculiarity of this trip
that she found her heart going out to others so much more than it had
ever gone before. She was not thinking of her own pain, although she knew
it was there, but of the pain of the world.

Her body lying on the strange hard cot ached with weariness in
unaccustomed places, yet she stretched and nestled upon the tan canvas
with satisfaction. She was sharing to a certain extent the hardships of
the soldiers--the hardship of one soldier whose privations hurt her
deeply. It was good to have to suffer--with him. Where was God? Did He
care? Was He in this queer little hostel? Might she ask Him now to set a
guard over Cameron and let him find the help he needed wherewith to go to
meet Death, if Death he must meet?

She laid her hands together as a little child might do and with wide-open
eyes staring into the dark of the high ceiling she whispered from her
heart: "Oh God, help--_us_--to find _you_!" and unconsciously she, too,
set her soul on the search that night.

As she closed her eyes a great peace and sense of safety came over her.

Outside on the road a company of late soldiers, coming home from leave
noised by. Some of them were drunk, and wrangling or singing, and a sense
of their pitiful need of God came over her as she sank into a deep sleep.




XV


She was awakened by the rattling of the pots and pans in the tiny
kitchen. She sat up startled and looked about her. It was very early. The
first sunlight was streaming redly through the window screens, and the
freshness of the morning was everywhere, for all the windows were wide
open. The stillness of the country, broken only by the joyous chorus of
the birds, struck her as a wonderful thing. She lay down again and closed
her eyes to listen. Music with the scent of clover! The cheery little
home noises in the kitchen seemed a pleasant background for the peace of
the Sabbath morning. It was so new and strange. Then came the thought of
camp and the anticipation of the day, with the sharp pang at the memory
that perhaps even now Cameron was gone. Orders were so uncertain. In the
army a man must be ready to move at a moment's notice. What if while she
slept he had passed by on one of those terrible troop trains!

She sat up again and began to put her hair into order and make herself
presentable. He had promised that if such a thing as a sudden move should
occur he would throw out an old envelope with his name written on it as
they passed by the hut, and she meant to go out to that railroad track
and make a thorough search before the general public were up.

Mrs. Cameron was still sleeping soundly, one work-worn hand partly
shading her face. Ruth knew instinctively that she must have been weeping
in the night. In the early morning dawn she drooped on the hard little
cot in a crumpled heap, and the girl's heart ached for her sorrow.

Ruth stole into the kitchen to ask for water to wash her face:

"I'm sorry," said the pleasant-faced woman who was making coffee and
frying bacon, "but the wash basins are all gone; we've had so many folks
come in. But you can have this pail. I just got this water for myself and
I'll let you have it and I'll get some more. You see, the water pipes
aren't put in the building yet and we have to go down the road quite a
piece to get any. This is all there was left last night."

She handed Ruth a two-gallon galvanized tin bucket containing a couple of
inches of water, obviously clean, and added a brief towel to the toilet
arrangements.

Ruth beat a hasty retreat back to the shelter of the piano with her
collection, fearing lest mirth would get the better of her. She could not
help thinking how her aunt would look if she could see her washing her
face in this pittance of water in the bottom of the great big bucket.

But Ruth Macdonald was adaptable in spite of her upbringing. She managed
to make a most pleasing toilet in spite of the paucity of water, and then
went back to the kitchen with the bucket.

"If you will show me where you get the water I'll go for some more," she
offered, anxious for an excuse to get out and explore the track.

The woman in the kitchen was not abashed at the offer. She accepted the
suggestion as a matter of course, taking for granted the same helpful
spirit that seemed to pervade all the people around the place. It did not
seem to strike her as anything strange that this young woman should be
willing to go for water. She was not giving attention to details like
clothes and handbags, and neither wealth nor social station belonged to
her scheme of life. So she smilingly gave the directions to the pump and
went on breaking nice brown eggs into a big yellow bowl. Ruth wished she
could stay and watch, it looked so interesting.

She took the pail and slipped out the back door, but before she went in
search of water she hurried down to the railroad track and scanned it for
several rods either way, carefully examining each bit of paper, her
breath held in suspense as she turned over an envelope or scrap of paper,
lest it might bear his name. At last with a glad look backward to be sure
she had missed nothing, she hurried up the bank and took her way down the
grassy path toward the pump, satisfied that Cameron had not yet left the
camp.

It was a lovely summer morning, and the quietness of the country struck
her as never before. The wild roses shimmered along the roadside in the
early sun, and bees and butterflies were busy about their own affairs. It
seemed such a lovely world if it only had not been for _war_. How could
God bear it! She lifted her eyes to the deep blue of the sky, where
little clouds floated lazily, like lovely aviators out for pleasure. Was
God up there? If she might only find Him. What did it all mean, anyway?
Did He really care for individuals?

It was all such a new experience, the village pump, and the few early
stragglers watching her curiously from the station platform. A couple of
grave soldiers hurried by, and the pang of what was to come shot through
her heart. The thought of the day was full of mingled joy and sorrow.

They ate a simple little breakfast, good coffee, toast and fried eggs.
Ruth wondered why it tasted so good amid such primitive surroundings; yet
everything was so clean and tidy, though coarse and plain. When they went
to pay their bill the proprietor said their beds would be only
twenty-five cents apiece because they had had no pillow. If they had had
a pillow he would have had to charge them fifty cents. The food was
fabulously cheap. They looked around and wondered how it could be done.
It was obvious that no tips would be received, and that money was no
consideration. In fact, the man told them his orders were merely to pay
expenses. He gave them a parting word of good cheer, and promised to try
and make them more comfortable if they wanted to return that night, and
so they started out for camp. Ruth was silent and thoughtful. She was
wishing she had had the boldness to ask this quaint Christian man some of
the questions that troubled her. He looked as if he knew God, and she
felt as if he might be able to make some things plain to her. But her
life had been so hedged about by conventionalities that it seemed an
impossible thing to her to open her lips on the subject to any living
being--unless it might be to John Cameron. It was queer how they two had
grown together in the last few months. Why could they not have known one
another before?

Then there came a vision of what her aunt might have thought, and
possible objections that might have come up if they had been intimate
friends earlier. In fact, that, too, seemed practically to have been an
impossibility. How had the war torn away the veil from foolish laws of
social rank and station! Never again could she submit to much of the
system that had been the foundation of her life so far. Somehow she must
find a way to tear her spirit free from things that were not real. The
thought of the social activities that would face her at home under the
guise of patriotism turned her soul sick with loathing. When she went
back home after he was gone she would find a way to do something real in
the world that would make for righteousness and peace somehow. Knitting
and dancing with lonesome soldiers did not satisfy her.

That was a wonderful day and they made the most of every hour, realizing
that it would probably be the last day they had together for many a long
month or year.

In the morning they stepped into the great auditorium and attended a
Y.M.C.A. service for an hour, but their hearts were so full, and they all
felt so keenly that this day was to be the real farewell, and they could
not spare a moment of it, that presently they slipped away to the quiet
of the woods once more, for it was hard to listen to the music and keep
the tears back. Mrs. Cameron especially found it impossible to keep her
composure.

Sunday afternoon she went into the Hostess' House to lie down in the rest
room for a few minutes, and sent the two young people off for a walk by
themselves.

Cameron took Ruth to the log in the woods and showed her his little
Testament and the covenant he had signed. Then they opened their hearts
together about the eternal things of life; shyly, at first, and then with
the assurance that sympathy brings. Cameron told her that he was trying
to find God, and Ruth told him about their experiences the night before.
She also shyly promised that she would pray for him, although she had
seldom until lately done very much real praying for herself.

It was a beautiful hour wherein they travelled miles in their friendship;
an hour in which their souls came close while they sat on the log under
the trees with long silences in the intervals of their talk.

It was whispered at the barracks that evening at five when Cameron went
back for "Retreat" that this was the last night. They would move in the
morning surely, perhaps before. He hurried back to the Hostess' House
where he had left his guests to order the supper for all, feeling that he
must make the most of every minute.

Passing the officers' headquarters he heard the raucous laugh of
Wainwright, and caught a glimpse of his fat head and neck through a
window. His heart sank! Wainwright was back! Then he had been sent for,
and they must be going that night!

He fled to the Hostess' House and was silent and distraught as he ate his
supper. Suppose Wainwright should come in while they were there and see
Ruth and spoil those last few minutes together? The thought was
unbearable.

Nobody wanted much supper and they wandered outside in the soft evening
air. There was a hushed sorrow over everything. Even the roughest
soldiers were not ashamed of tears. Little faded mothers clung to big
burly sons, and their sons smoothed their gray hair awkwardly and were
not ashamed. A pair of lovers sat at the foot of a tree hand in hand and
no one looked at them, except in sympathy. There were partings
everywhere. A few wives with little children in their arms were writing
down hurried directions and receiving a bit of money; but most desolate
of all was the row of lads lined up near the station whose friends were
gone, or had not come at all, and who had to stand and endure the woe of
others.

"Couldn't we _walk_ out of camp?" asked Ruth suddenly. "Must we go on
that awful trolley? Last night everybody was weeping. I wanted to weep,
too. It is only a few steps from the end of camp to our quarters. Or is
it too far for you, Mrs. Cameron?"

"Nothing is too far to-night so I may be with my boy one hour longer."

"Then we must start at once," said Cameron, "there is barely time to
reach the outskirts before the hour when all visitors must be out of
camp. It is over three miles, mother."

"I can walk it if Ruth can," said the mother smiling bravely.

He drew an arm of each within his own and started off, glad to be out of
Wainwright's neighborhood, gladder still to have a little longer with
those he loved.

Out through the deserted streets they passed, where empty barracks were
being prepared for the next draft men; past the Tank Headquarters and the
colored barracks, the storehouses and more barracks just emptied that
afternoon into troop trains; out beyond the great laundry and on up the
cinder road to the top of the hill and the end of the way.

There at last, in sight of the Military Police, pacing back and forth at
the entrance to camp, with the twinkling lights of the village beyond,
and the long wooded road winding back to camp, they paused to say
good-bye. The cinder path and the woods at its edge made a blot of
greenish black against a brilliant stormy sky. The sun was setting like a
ball of fire behind the trees, and some strange freak of its rays formed
a golden cross resting back against the clouds, its base buried among the
woods, its cross bar rising brilliant against the black of a thunder
cloud.

"Look!" said Ruth, "it is an omen!" They looked and a great wonder and
awe came upon them. The Cross!

Cameron looked back and then down at her and smiled.

"It will lead you safely home," she said softly and laid her hand in his.
He held her fingers close for an instant and his eyes dared some of the
things his lips would never have spoken now even if they two had been
alone.

The Military Police stepped up:

"You don't have to stay out here to say good-bye. You can come into the
station right here and sit down. Or if your friends are going to the
village you may go with them, Comrade. I can trust you to come back right
away."

"I thank you!" Cameron said. "That is the kindest thing that has happened
to me at this camp. I wish I could avail myself of it, but I have barely
time to get back to the barracks within the hour given me. Perhaps--" and
he glanced anxiously across the road toward the village. "Could you just
keep an eye out that my ladies reach the Salvation Army Hut all right?"

"Sure!" said the big soldier heartily, "I'll go myself. I'm just going
off duty and I'll see them safe to the door."

He stepped a little away and gave an order to his men, and so they said
good-bye and watched Cameron go down the road into the sunset with the
golden cross blazing above him as he walked lower and lower down the hill
into the shadow of the dark woods and the thunder cloud. But brightly the
cross shone above him as long as they could see, and just before he
stepped into the darkness where the road turned he paused, waved his hat,
and so passed on out of their sight.




XVI


The first night on the water was one of unspeakable horror to Cameron.
They had scarcely begun to feel the roll of the waves before Captain
Wurtz manifested his true nature. At six o'clock and broad daylight, he
ordered the men below, had them locked in, and all the port holes closed!

The place was packed, the heat was unbearable, the motion increasing all
the time, and the air soon became intolerable. In vain the men protested,
and begged for air. Their requests were all denied. The captain trusted
no man. He treated them as if they were hounds. Wainwright stood by the
captain's side, smoking the inevitable cigarette, his eyes narrowly
watching Cameron, when the order was given; but no onlooker could have
told from Cameron's well trained face whether he had heard or not. Well
he knew where those orders had originated, and instantly he saw a series
of like torments. Wainwright had things in his own hands for this voyage.
Wurtz was his devoted slave. For Wainwright had money, and used it freely
with his captain, and Wainwright well knew how to think up tortures. It
was really the only thing in which he was clever. And here again was an
instance of practice making perfect, for Wainwright had done little else
since his kindergarten days than to think up trials for those who would
not bow to his peevish will. He seemed to be gifted in finding out
exactly what would be the finest kind of torture for any given soul who
happened to be his victim. He had the mind of Nero and the spirit of a
mean little beast. The wonder, the great miracle was, that he had not in
some way discovered that Ruth had been visiting the camp, and taken his
revenge before she left. This was the first thought that came to Cameron
when he found himself shut into the murky atmosphere. The next thought
was that perhaps he had discovered it and this was the result. He felt
himself the Jonah for the company, and as the dreadful hours went by
would fain have cast himself into the sea if there had been a possible
way of escape.

It was not an American transport on which they were sailing, and the
captain was not responsible for the food, but he might have refused to
allow such meals to be served to his men if he had cared. He did not
care, that was the whole trouble. He ate and drank, principally drank,
and did whatever Wainwright suggested. When a protest came up to him he
turned it down with a laugh, and said: "Oh, that's good enough for a buck
private," and went on with his dirty jokes.

The supper that first night was abominable, some unpleasant kind of meat
cooked with cabbage, and though they tried to eat it, many of them could
not keep it down. The ship rolled and the men grew sick. The atmosphere
became fetid. Each moment seemed more impossible than the last. There was
no room to move, neither could one get out and away. After supper the men
lay down in the only place there was to lie, two men on the tables, two
men on the benches each side, two men on the floor between, and so on all
over the cabin, packed like eggs in a box.

They sent a message to their captain begging for air, but he only
laughed, and sent word back they would have air enough before they got
through with this war.

The night wore on and Cameron lay on his scant piece of floor--he had
given his bench to a sicker man than himself--and tried to sleep. But
sleep did not visit his eyelids. He was thinking, thinking. "I'm going to
find God! I'm going to search for Him with all my heart, and somehow I'm
going to find Him before I'm done. I may never come home, but I'll find
God, anyhow! It's the only thing that makes life bearable!"

Then would come a wave of hate for his enemy and wipe out all other
thoughts, and he would wrestle in his heart with the desire to kill
Wainwright--yes, and the captain, too. As some poor wretch near him would
writhe and groan in agony his rage would boil up anew, his fists would
clench, and he would half rise to go to the door and overpower that
guard! If only he could get up to where the officers were enjoying
themselves! Oh, to bring them down here and bind them in this loathsome
atmosphere, feed them with this food, stifle them in the dark with closed
port holes! His brain was fertile with thoughts of revenge. Then suddenly
across his memory would flash the words: "If with all your heart ye seek
Him," and he would reach out in longing: Oh, if he could find God, surely
God would stop a thing like this! Did God have no power in His own earth?

Slowly, painfully, the days dragged by, each worse than the last. In the
mornings the men must go on deck whether they were sick or not, and must
stay there all day, no matter what the weather. If they were wet they
must dry out by the heat of their bodies. There was no possibility of
getting at their kit bags, it was so crowded. No man was allowed to open
one. All they had was the little they carried in their packs. How they
lived through it was a wonder, but live they did. Perhaps the worst
torture of all was the great round cork life preserver in the form of a
cushioned ring which they were obliged to wear night and day. A man could
never lie down comfortably with it on, and if from sheer exhaustion he
fell asleep he awoke with his back aching tortures. The meat and cabbage
was varied twice by steamed fish served in its scales, tails, fins,
heads, and entrails complete. All that they got which was really eatable
was a small bun served in the morning, and boiled potatoes occasionally.

Nevertheless, these hardships would have been as nothing to Cameron if
they had not represented to him hate, pure and simple. He felt, and
perhaps justly, that if Wainwright had not wished to make him suffer,
these things would surely have been mitigated.

The day came at last when they stood on the deck and watched the strange
foreign shore draw nearer. Cameron, stern and silent, stood apart from
the rest. For the moment his anger toward Wainwright was forgotten,
though he could hear the swaggering tones from the deck above, and the
noisome laughter of Wurtz in response. Cameron was looking into the face
of the future, wondering what it would mean for him. Out there was the
strange country. What did it hold for him? Was God there? How he wanted
God to go with him and help him face the future!

There was much delay in landing, and getting ready to move. The men were
weak from sickness and long fasting. They tottered as they stood, but
they had to stand--unless they dropped. They turned wan faces toward one
another and tried to smile. Their fine American pep was gone, hopelessly,
yet they grinned feebly now and then and got off a weak little joke or
two. For the most part they glared when the officers came by--especially
two--those two. The wrath toward them had been brewing long and deep as
each man lay weltering through those unbearable nights. Hardship they
could bear, and pain, and sickness--but tyranny _never!_

Someone had written a letter. It was not the first. There had been others
on ship board protesting against their treatment. But this letter was a
warning to that captain and lieutenant. If they ever led these men into
battle _they_ would be killed before the battle began. It was signed by
the company. It had been a unanimous vote. Now as they stood staring
leadenly at the strange sights about them, listening to the new jargon of
the shore, noting the quaint headdresses and wooden sabots of the people
with a fine scorn of indifference, they thought of that letter in hard
phrases of rage. And bitterest of all were the thoughts of John Cameron
as he stood in his place awaiting orders.

They were hungry, these men, and unfit, when at last the order came to
march, and they had to hike it straight up a hill with a great pack on
their backs. It was not that they minded the packs or the hike or the
hunger. It was the injustice of their treatment that weighed upon them
like a burden that human nature could not bear. They had come to lift
such a burden from the backs of another nation, and they had been treated
like dogs all the way over! Like the low rumbling of oncoming thunder was
the blackness of their countenances as they marched up, up, and up into
Brest. The sun grew hot, and their knees wobbled under them from sheer
weakness; strong men when they started, who were fine and fit, now faint
like babies, yet with spirits unbroken, and great vengeance in their
hearts. They would fight, oh they would fight, yes, but they would see
that captain out of the way first! Here and there by the way some
fell--the wonder is they all did not--and had to be picked up by the
ambulances; and at last they had to be ordered to stop and rest! They!
Who had come over here to flaunt their young strength in the face of the
enemy! _They_ to fall _before the fight was begun_. This, too, they laid
up against their tyrant.

But there was welcome for them, nevertheless. Flowers and wreaths and
bands of music met them as they went through the town, and women and
little children flung them kisses and threw blossoms in their way. This
revived somewhat the drooping spirits with which they had gone forth, and
when they reached camp and got a decent meal they felt better, and more
reasonable. Still the bitterness was there, against those two who had
used their power unworthily. That night, lying on a hard little cot in
camp Cameron tried to pray, his heart full of longing for God, yet found
the heavens as brass, and could not find words to cry out, except in
bitterness. Somehow he did not feel he was getting on at all in his
search, and from sheer weariness and discouragement he fell asleep at
last.

Three days and nights of rest they had and then were packed into tiny
freight cars with a space so small that they had to take turns sitting
down. Men had to sleep sitting or standing, or wherever they could find
space to lie down. So they started across France, three days and awful
nights they went, weary and sore and bitter still. But they had air and
they were better fed. Now and then they could stand up and look out
through a crack. Once in a while a fellow could get space to stretch out
for a few minutes. Cameron awoke once and found feet all over him, feet
even in his face. Yet these things were what he had expected. He did not
whine. He was toughened for such experiences, so were the men about him.
The hardness merely brought out their courage. They were getting their
spirits back now as they neared the real scene of action. The old
excitement and call to action were creeping back into their blood. Now
and then a song would pipe out, or a much abused banjo or mandolin would
twang and bring forth their voices. It was only when an officer walked by
or mention would be made of the captain or lieutenant that their looks
grew black again and they fell silent. Injustice and tyranny, the things
they had come out to fight, that they would not forgive nor forget. Their
spirits were reviving but their hate was there.

At last they detrained and marched into a little town.

This was France!

Cameron looked about him in dismay. A scramble of houses and barns, sort
of two-in-one affairs. Where was the beauty of France about which he had
read so often? Mud was everywhere. The streets were deep with it, the
ground was sodden, rain-soaked. It was raining even then. Sunny France!

It was in a barnyard deep in manure where Cameron's tent was set up.
Little brown tents set close together, their flies dovetailing so that
more could be put in a given space.

Dog weary he strode over the stakes that held them, and looked upon the
place where he was to sleep. Its floor was almost a foot deep in water!
Rank, ill smelling water! Pah! Was this intention that he should have
been billeted here? Some of the men had dry places. Of course, it might
have just happened, but--well, what was the use. Here he must sleep for
he could not stand up any longer or he would fall over. So he heaped up a
pillow of the muck, spread his blanket out and lay down. At least his
head would be high enough out of the water so that he would not drown in
his sleep, and with his feet in water, and the cold ooze creeping slowly
through his heavy garments, he dropped immediately into oblivion. There
were no prayers that night. His heart was full of hate. The barnyard was
in front of an old stone farm house, and in that farm house were billeted
the captain and his favorite first lieutenant. Cameron could hear his
raucous laugh and the clinking of the wine glasses, almost the gurgle of
the wine. The thought of Wainwright was his last conscious one before he
slept. Was it of intention that he should have been put here close by,
where Wainwright could watch his every move?

As the days went by and real training began, with French officers working
them hard until they were ready to drop at night, gradually Cameron grew
stolid. It seemed sometimes as if he had always been here, splashing
along in the mud, soaked with rain, sleeping in muck at night, never
quite dry, never free from cold and discomfort, never quite clean, always
training, the boom of the battle afar, but never getting there. Where was
the front? Why didn't they get there and fight and get done with it all?

The rain poured down, day after day. Ammunition trains rolled by. More
men marched in, more marched on, still they trained. It seemed eons since
he had bade Ruth and his mother good-bye that night at the camp. No mail
had come. Oh, if he could just hear a word from home! If he only had her
picture! They had taken some together at camp and she had promised to
have them developed and send them, but they would probably never reach
him. And it were better if they did not. Wainwright was censor. If he
recognized the writing nothing would ever reach him he was sure. Still,
Wainwright had nothing to do with the incoming mail, only the outgoing.
Well, Wainwright should never censor his letters. He would find a way to
get letters out that Wainwright had never censored, or he would never
send any.

But the days dragged by in rain and mud and discouragement, and no
letters came. Once or twice he attempted to write a respectable letter to
his mother, but he felt so hampered with the thought of Wainwright having
to see it that he kept it securely in his pocket, and contented himself
with gay-pictured postcards which he had purchased in Brest, on which he
inscribed a few non-committal sentences, always reminding them of the
censor, and his inability to say what he would, and always ending,
"Remember me to my friend, and tell her I have forgotten nothing but
cannot write at present for reasons which I cannot explain."

At night he lay on his watery couch and composed long letters to Ruth
which he dared not put on paper lest somehow they should come into the
hands of Wainwright. He took great satisfaction in the fact that he had
succeeded in slipping through a post card addressed to herself from
Brest, through the kindness and understanding of a small boy who agreed
to mail it in exchange for a package of chewing gum. Here at the camp
there was no such opportunity, but he would wait and watch for another
chance. Meantime the long separation of miles, and the creeping days,
gave him a feeling of desolation such as he had never experienced before.
He began to grow introspective. He fancied that perhaps he had
overestimated Ruth's friendship for him. The dear memories he had
cherished during the voyage were brought out in the nightwatches and
ruthlessly reviewed, until his own shy hope that the light in her eyes
had been for him began to fade, and in its place there grew a conviction
that happiness of earth was never for him. For, he reasoned, if she
cared, why did she not write? At least a post card? Other fellows were
getting letters now and then. Day after day he waited when the mail was
distributed, but nothing ever came. His mother seemed to have forgotten,
too. Surely, all these weeks, some word would have come through. It was
not in reason that his mail should be delayed beyond others. Could it be
that there was false play somehow? Was Wainwright at the bottom of this?
Or had something happened to his mother, and had Ruth forgotten?




XVII


The weeks rolled by. The drilling went on. At last word came that the
company was to move up farther toward the front. They prepared for a long
hike almost eagerly, not knowing yet what was before them. Anything was
better than this intolerable waiting.

Solemnly under a leaden sky they gathered; sullenly went through their
inspection; stolidly, dully, they marched away through the rain and mud
and desolation. The nights were cold and their clothes seemed thin and
inadequate. They had not been paid since they came over, so there was no
chance to buy any little comfort, even if it had been for sale. A longing
for sweets and home puddings and pies haunted their waking hours as they
trudged wearily hour after hour, kilometer after kilometer, coming ever
nearer, nearer.

For two days they hiked, and then entrained for a long uncomfortable
night, and all the time Cameron's soul was crying out within him for the
living God. In these days he read much in the little Testament whenever
there was a rest by the wayside, and he could draw apart from the others.
Ever his soul grew hungrier as he neared the front, and knew his time now
was short. There were days when he had the feeling that he must stop
tramping and do something about this great matter that hung over him, and
then Wainwright would pass by and cast a sharp direction at him with a
sneer in the curl of his moustache, and all the fury of his being would
rise up, until he would clench his fists in helpless wrath, as Wainwright
swaggered on. To think how easily he could drag him in the dust if it
only came to a fair fight between them! But Wainwright had all the
advantage now, with such a captain on his side!

That night ride was a terrible experience. Cameron, with his thoughts
surging and pounding through his brain, was in no condition to come out
of hardships fresh and fit. He was overcome with weariness when he
climbed into the box car with thirty-nine other fellows just as weary,
just as discouraged, just as homesick.

There was only room for about twenty to travel comfortably in that car,
but they cheerfully huddled together and took their turns sitting down,
and somewhere along in the night it came Cameron's turn to slide down on
the floor and stretch out for a while; or perhaps his utter weariness
made him drop there involuntarily, because he could no longer keep awake.
For a few minutes the delicious ache of lying flat enveloped him and
carried him away into unconsciousness with a lulling ecstasy. Then
suddenly Wainwright seemed to loom over him and demand that he rise and
let him lie down in his place. It seemed to Cameron that the lethargy
that had stolen over him as he fell asleep was like heavy bags of sand
tied to his hands and feet. He could not rise if he would. He thought he
tried to tell Wainwright that he was unfair. He was an officer and had
better accommodations. What need had he to come back here and steal a
weary private's sleep. But his lips refused to open and his throat gave
out no sound. Wainwright seemed gradually stooping nearer, nearer, with a
large soft hand about his throat, and his little pig eyes gleaming like
two points of green light, his selfish mouth all pursed up as it used to
be when the fellows stole his all-day sucker, and held it tantalizingly
above his reach. One of his large cushiony knees was upon Cameron's chest
now, and the breath was going from him. He gasped, and tried to shout to
the other fellows that this was the time to do away with this tyrant,
this captain's pet, but still only a croak would come from his lips. With
one mighty effort he wrenched his hands and feet into action, and lunged
up at the mighty bully above him, struggling, clutching wildly for his
throat, with but one thought in his dreaming brain, to kill--to kill!
Sound came to his throat at last, action to his sleeping body, and
struggling himself loose from the two comrades who had fallen asleep upon
him and almost succeeded in smothering him, he gave a hoarse yell and got
to his feet.

They cursed and laughed at him, and snuggled down good naturedly to their
broken slumbers again, but Cameron stood in his corner, glaring out the
tiny crack into the dark starless night that was whirling by, startled
into thoughtfulness. The dream had been so vivid that he could not easily
get rid of it. His heart was boiling hot with rage at his old enemy, yet
something stronger was there, too, a great horror at himself. He had been
about to kill a fellow creature! To what pass had he come!

And somewhere out in that black wet night, a sweet white face gleamed,
with brown hair blown about it, and the mist of the storm in its locks.
It was as if her spirit had followed him and been present in that dream
to shame him. Supposing the dream had been true, and he had actually
killed Wainwright! For he knew by the wild beating of his heart, by the
hotness of his wrath as he came awake, that nothing would have stayed his
hand if he had been placed in such a situation.

It was _like_ a dream to hover over a poor worn tempest-tossed soul in
that way and make itself verity; demand that he should live it out again
and again and face the future that would have followed such a set of
circumstances. He had to see Ruth's sad, stern face, the sorrowful eyes
full of tears, the reproach, the disappointment, the alien lifting of her
chin. He knew her so well; could so easily conjecture what her whole
attitude would be, he thought. And then he must needs go on to think out
once more just what relation there might be between his enemy and the
girl he loved--think it out more carefully than he had ever let himself
do before. All he knew about the two, how their home grounds adjoined,
how their social set and standing and wealth was the same, how they had
often been seen together; how Wainwright had boasted!

All night he stood and thought it out, glowering between the cracks of
the car at the passing whirl, differentiating through the blackness now
and then a group of trees or buildings or a quick flash of furtive light,
but mainly darkness and monotony. It was as if he were tied to the tail
of a comet that dashed hellwards for a billion years, so long the night
extended till the dull gray dawn. There was no God anywhere in that dark
night. He had forgotten about Him entirely. He was perhaps strongly
conscious of the devil at his right hand.

They detrained and hiked across a bit of wet country that was all
alike--all mud, in the dull light that grew only to accentuate the
ugliness and dreariness of everything. Sunny France! And this was sunny
France!

At last they halted along a muddy roadside and lined up for what seemed
an interminable age, waiting for something, no one knew what, nor cared.
They were beyond caring, most of them, poor boys! If their mothers had
appeared with a bowl of bread and milk and called them to bed they would
have wept in her arms with joy. They stood apathetically and waited,
knowing that sometime after another interminable age had passed, the red
tape necessary to move a large body like themselves would be unwound, and
everything go on again to another dreary halt somewhere. Would it ever be
over? The long, long trail?

Cameron stood with the rest in a daze of discouragement, not taking the
trouble to think any more. His head was hot and his chest felt heavy,
reminding him of Wainwright's fat knee; and he had an ugly cough.

Suddenly someone--a comrade--touched him on the shoulder.

"Come on in here, Cammie, you're all in. This is the Salvation Army Hut!"

Cameron turned. Salvation Army! It sounded like the bells of heaven. Ah!
It was something he could think back to, that little Salvation Army Hut
at camp! It brought the tears into his throat in a great lump. He lurched
after his friend, and dropped into the chair where he was pushed, sliding
his arms out on the table before him and dropping his head quickly to
hide his emotion. He couldn't think what was the matter with him. He
seemed to be all giving way.

"He's all in!" he heard the voice of his friend, "I thought maybe you
could do something for him. He's a good old sport!"

Then a gentle hand touched his shoulder, lightly, like his mother's hand.
It thrilled him and he lifted his bleared eyes and looked into the face
of a kindly gray-haired woman.

She was not a handsome woman, though none of the boys would ever let her
be called homely, for they claimed her smile was so glorious that it gave
her precedence in beauty to the greatest belle on earth. There was a real
mother lovelight in her eyes now when she looked at Cameron, and she held
a cup of steaming hot coffee in her hand, real coffee with sugar and
cream and a rich aroma that gave life to his sinking soul.

"Here, son, drink this!" she said, holding the cup to his lips.

He opened his lips eagerly and then remembered and drew back:

"No," he said, drawing away, "I forgot, I haven't any money. We're all
dead broke!" He tried to pull himself together and look like a man.

But the coffee cup came close to his lips again and the rough motherly
hand stole about his shoulders to support him:

"That's all right!" she said in a low, matter-of-fact tone. "You don't
need money here, son, you've got home, and I'm your mother to-night. Just
drink this and then come in there behind those boxes and lie down on my
bed and get a wink of sleep. You'll be yourself again in a little while.
That's it, son! You've hiked a long way. Now forget it and take comfort."

So she soothed him till he surely must be dreaming again, and wondered
which was real, or if perhaps he had a fever and hallucinations. He
reached a furtive hand and felt of the pine table, and the chair on which
he sat to make sure that he was awake, and then he looked into her kind
gray eyes and smiled.

She led him into the little improvised room behind the counter and tucked
him up on her cot with a big warm blanket.

"That's all right now, son," she whispered, "don't you stir till you feel
like it. I'll look after you and your friend will let you know if there
is any call for you. Just you rest."

He thanked her with his eyes, too weary to speak a word, and so he
dropped into a blessed sleep.

When he awakened slowly to consciousness again there was a smell in the
air of more coffee, delicious coffee. He wondered if it was the same cup,
and this only another brief phase of his own peculiar state. Perhaps he
had not been asleep at all, but had only closed his eyes and opened them
again. But no, it was night, and there were candles lit beyond the
barricade of boxes. He could see their flicker through the cracks, and
shadows were falling here and there grotesquely on the bit of canvas that
formed another wall. There was some other odor on the air, too. He
sniffed delightedly like a little child, something sweet and alluring,
reminding one of the days when mother took the gingerbread and pies out
of the oven. No--doughnuts, that was it! Doughnuts! Not doughnuts just
behind the trenches! How could that be?

He stirred and raised up on one elbow to look about him.

There were two other cots in the room, arranged neatly with folded
blankets. A box in between held a few simple toilet articles, a tin basin
and a bucket of water. He eyed them greedily. When had he had a good
wash. What luxury!

He dropped back on the cot and all at once became aware that there were
strange sounds in the air above the building in which he lay, strange and
deep, yet regular and with a certain booming monotony as if they had been
going on a long time, and he had been too preoccupied to take notice of
them. A queer frenzy seized his heart. This, then, was the sound of
battle in the distance! He was here at the front at last! And that was
the sound of enemy shells! How strange it seemed! How it gripped the soul
with the audacity of it all! How terrible, and yet how exciting to be
here at last! And yet he had an unready feeling. Something was still
undone to prepare him for this ordeal. It was his subconscious self that
was crying out for God. His material self had sensed the doughnuts that
were frying so near to him, and he looked up eagerly to welcome whoever
was coming tiptoing in to see if he was awake, with a nice hot plate of
them for him to eat!

He swung to a sitting posture, and received them and the cup of hot
chocolate that accompanied them with eagerness, like a little child whose
mother had promised them if he would be good. Strange how easy and
natural it was to fall into the ways of this gracious household. Would
one call it that? It seemed so like a home!

While he was eating, his buddy slipped in smiling excitedly:

"Great news, Cammie! We've got a new captain! And, oh boy! He's a peach!
He sat on our louie first off! You oughtta have seen poor old
Wainwright's face when he shut him up at the headquarters. Boy, you'd a
croaked! It was rich!"

Cameron finished the last precious bite of his third hot doughnut with a
gulp of joy:

"What's become of Wurtz?" he asked anxiously.

"Canned, I guess," hazarded the private. "I did hear they took him to a
sanitarium, nervous breakdown, they said. I'll tell the world he'd have
had one for fair if he'd stayed with this outfit much longer. I only wish
they'd have taken his little pet along with him. This is no place for
little Harold and he'll find it out now he's got a real captain.
Good-night! How d'you 'spose he ever got his commission, anyway? Well,
how are you, old top? Feelin' better? I knew they'd fix you up here.
They're reg'ler guys! Well, I guess we better hit the hay. Come on, I'll
show you where your billet is. I looked out for a place with a good
water-tight roof. What d'ye think of the orchestra Jerry is playing out
there on the front? Some noise, eh, what? Say, this little old hut is
some good place to tie up to, eh, pard! I've seen 'em before, that's how
I knew."

During the days that followed Cameron spent most of his leisure time in
the Salvation Army Hut.

He did not hover around the victrola as he would probably have done
several months before, nor yet often join his voice in the ragtime song
that was almost continuous at the piano, regardless of nearby shells, and
usually accompanied by another tune on the victrola. He did not hover
around the cooks and seek to make himself needful to them there, placing
himself at the seat of supplies and handy when he was hungry--as did
many. He sat at one of the far tables, often writing letters or reading
his little book, or more often looking off into space, seeing those last
days at camp, and the faces of his mother and Ruth.

There was more than one reason why he spent much of his time here. The
hut was not frequented much by officers, although they did come
sometimes, and were always welcomed, but never deferred to. Wainwright
would not be likely to be about and it was always a relief to feel free
from the presence of his enemy. But gradually a third reason came to play
a prominent part in bringing him here, and that was the atmosphere. He
somehow felt as if he were among real people who were living life
earnestly, as if the present were not all there was.

There came a day when they were to move on up to the actual front.
Cameron wrote letters, such as he had not dared to write before, for he
had found out that these women could get them to his people in case
anything should happen to him, and so he left a little letter for Ruth
and one for his mother, and asked the woman with the gray eyes to get
them back home somehow.

There was not much of moment in the letters. Even thus he dared not speak
his heart for the iron of Wainwright's poison had entered into his soul.
He had begun to think that perhaps, in spite of all her friendliness,
Ruth really belonged to another world, not his world. Yet just her
friendliness meant much to him in his great straight of loneliness. He
would take that much of her, at least, even if it could never be more. He
would leave a last word for her. If behind his written words there was
breaking heart and tender love, she would never dream it. If his soul was
really taking another farewell of her, what harm, since he said no sad
word. Yet it did him good to write these letters and feel a reasonable
assurance that they would sometime reach their destination.

There was a meeting held that night in the hut. He had never happened to
attend one before, although he had heard the boys say they enjoyed them.
One of his comrades asked him to stay, and a quick glance told him the
fellow needed him, had chosen him for moral support.

So Cameron sat in a shadowy corner of the crowded room, and listened to
the singing, wild and strong, and with no hint of coming battle in its
full rolling lilt. He noted with satisfaction how the "Long, Long Trail,"
and "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag" gradually gave place to
"Tell Mother I'll Be There," and "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder,"
growing strong and full and solemn in the grand old melody of "Abide With
Me." There were fellows there who but a few hours before had been
shooting crap, whose lips had been loud with cheerful curses. Now they
sat and sang with all their hearts, the heartiest of the lot. It was a
curious psychological study to watch them. Some of them were just as keen
now on the religious side of their natures as they had been with their
sport or their curses. Theirs were primitive natures, easily wrought upon
by the atmosphere of the moment, easily impressed by the solemnity of the
hour, nearer, perhaps, to stopping to think about God and eternity than
ever before in their lives. But there were also others here, thoughtful
fellows who were strong and brave, who had done their duty and borne
their hardships with the best, yet whose faces now were solemn with
earnestness, to whom this meeting meant a last sacrament before they
passed to meet their test. Cameron felt his heart in perfect sympathy
with the gathering, and when the singing stopped for a few minutes and
the clear voice of a young girl began to pray, he bowed his head with a
smart of tears in his eyes. She was a girl who had just arrived that day,
and she reminded him of Ruth. She had pansy-blue eyes and long gold
ripples in her abundant hair. It soothed him like a gentle hand on his
heart to hear her speak those words of prayer to God, praying for them
all as if they were her own brothers, praying as if she understood just
how they felt this night before they went on their way. She was so young
and gently cared for, this girl with her plain soldier's uniform, and her
fearlessness, praying as composedly out there under fire as if she
trusted perfectly that her heavenly Father had control of everything and
would do the best for them all. What a wonderful girl! Or, no--was it
perhaps a wonderful trust? Stay, was it not perhaps a wonderful heavenly
Father? And she had found Him? Perhaps she could tell him the way and how
he had missed it in his search!

With this thought in his mind he lingered as the most of the rest passed
out, and turning he noticed that the man who had come with him lingered
also, and edged up to the front where the lassie stood talking with a
group of men.

Then one of the group spoke up boldly:

"Say, Cap," he addressed her almost reverently, as if he had called her
some queenly name instead of captain, "say, Cap, I want to ask you a
question. Some of those fellows that preached to us have been telling us
that if we go over there, and don't come back it'll be all right with us,
just because we died fighting for liberty. But we don't believe that
dope. Why--d'ye mean to tell me, Cap, that if a fellow has been rotten
all his life he gets saved just because he happened to get shot in a
battle? Why some of us didn't even come over here to fight because we
wanted to; we had to, we were drafted. Do you mean to tell me that makes
it all right over here? I can't see that at all. And we want to know the
truth. You dope it out for us, Cap."

The young captain lassie slowly shook her head:

"No, just dying doesn't save you, son." There was a note of tenderness in
that "son" as those Salvation Army lassies spoke it, that put them
infinitely above the common young girl, as if some angelic touch had set
them apart for their holy ministry. It was as if God were using their
lips and eyes and spirits to speak to these, his children, in their
trying hour.

"You see, it's this way. Everybody has sinned, and the penalty of sin is
death. You all know that?"

Her eyes searched their faces, and appealed to the truth hidden in the
depths of their souls. They nodded, those boys who were going out soon to
face death. They were willing to tell her that they acknowledged their
sins. They did not mind if they said it before each other. They meant it
now. Yes, they were sinners and it was because they knew they were that
they wanted to know what chances they stood in the other world.

"But God loved us all so much that He wanted to make a way for us to
escape the punishment," went on the sweet steady voice, seeming to bring
the very love of the Father down into their midst with its forceful,
convincing tone. "And so He sent His son, Jesus Christ, to take our place
and die on the Cross in our stead. Whoever is willing to accept His
atonement may be saved. And it's all up to us whether we will take it or
not. It isn't anything we can do or be. It is just taking Jesus as our
Saviour, believing in Him, and taking Him at His word."

Cameron lingered and knelt with the rest when she prayed again for them,
and in his own heart he echoed the prayer of acceptance that others were
putting up. As he went out into the black night, and later, on the silent
march through the dark, he was turning it over in his mind. It seemed to
him the simplest, the most sensible explanation of the plan of Salvation
he had ever heard. He wondered if the minister at home knew all this and
had meant it when he tried to explain. But no, that minister had not
tried to explain, he had told him he would grow into it, and here he was
perhaps almost at the end and he had not grown into it yet. That young
girl to-night had said it took only an instant to settle the whole thing,
and she looked as if her soul was resting on it. Why could he not get
peace? Why could he not find God?

Then out of the dark and into his thoughts came a curse and a sneer and a
curt rebuke from Wainwright, and all his holy and beautiful thoughts
fled! He longed to lunge out of the dark and spring upon that fat, flabby
lieutenant, and throttle him. So, in bitterness of spirit he marched out
to face the foe.




XVIII


When Ruth Macdonald got back from camp she found herself utterly
dissatisfied with her old life. The girls in her social set were full of
war plans. They had one and all enlisted in every activity that was
going. Each one appeared in some pretty and appropriate uniform, and took
the new régime with as much eagerness and enthusiasm as ever she had put
into dancing and dressing.

Not that they had given up either of those employments. Oh, dear no! When
they were not busy getting up little dances for the poor dear soldier
boys from the nearby camps, they were learning new solo steps wherewith
to entertain those soldier boys when their turn came to go to camp and
keep up the continuous performance that seemed to be necessary to the
cheering of a good soldier. And as for dressing, no one need ever suggest
again a uniform for women as the solution of the high cost of dressing.
The number of dainty devices of gold braid and red stars and silver
tassels that those same staid uniforms developed made plain forever that
the woman who chooses can make even a uniform distinctive and striking
and altogether costly. In short they went into the war with the same
superficial flightiness formerly employed in the social realms. They went
dashing here and there in their high-power cars on solemn errands, with
all the nonchalance of their ignorance and youth, till one, knowing some
of them well, trembled for the errand if it were important. And many of
them were really useful, which only goes to prove that a tremendous
amount of unsuspected power is wasted every year and that unskilled labor
often accomplishes almost as much as skilled. Some of them secured
positions in the Navy Yard, or in other public offices, where they were
thrown delightfully into intimacies with officers, and were able to step
over the conventionalities of their own social positions into wildly
exciting Bohemian adventures under the popular guise of patriotism,
without a rebuke from their elders. There was not a dull hour in the
little town. The young men of their social set might all be gone to war,
but there were others, and the whirl of life went on gaily for the
thoughtless butterflies, who danced and knitted and drove motor cars, and
made bandages and just rejoiced to walk the streets knitting on the
Sabbath day, a gay cretonne knitting bag on arm, and knitting needles
plying industriously as if the world would go naked if they did not work
every minute. Just a horde of rebellious young creatures, who at heart
enjoyed the unwonted privilege of breaking the Sabbath and shocking a few
fanatics, far more than they really cared to knit. But nobody had time to
pry into the quality of such patriotism. There were too many other people
doing the same thing, and so it passed everywhere for the real thing, and
the world whirled on and tried to be gay to cover its deep heartache and
stricken horror over the sacrifice of its sons.

But Ruth, although she bravely tried for several weeks, could not throw
herself into such things. She felt that they were only superficial. There
might be a moiety of good in all these things, but they were not the real
big things of life; not the ways in which the vital help could be given,
and she longed with her whole soul to get in on it somewhere.

The first Sabbath after her return from camp she happened into a bit of
work which while it was in no way connected with war work, still helped
to interest her deeply and keep her thinking along the lines that had
been started while she was with John Cameron.

A quiet, shy, plain little woman, an old member of the church and noted
for good work, came hurrying down the aisle after the morning service and
implored a young girl in the pew just in front of Ruth to help her that
afternoon in an Italian Sunday school she was conducting in a small
settlement about a mile and a half from Bryne Haven:

"It's only to play the hymns, Miss Emily," she said. "Carrie Wayne has to
go to a funeral. She always plays for me. I wouldn't ask you if I could
play the least mite myself, but I can't. And the singing won't go at all
without someone to play the piano."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Beck, but I really can't!" pleaded Miss Emily
quickly. "I promised to help out in the canteen work this afternoon. You
know the troop trains are coming through, and Mrs. Martin wanted me to
take her place all the afternoon."

Mrs. Beck's face expressed dismay. She gave a hasty glance around the
rapidly emptying church.

"Oh, dear, I don't know what I'll do!" she said.

"Oh, let them do without singing for once," suggested the carefree Emily.
"Everybody ought to learn to do without something in war time. We
conserve sugar and flour, let the Italians conserve singing!" and with a
laugh at her own brightness she hurried away.

Ruth reached forward and touched the troubled little missionary on the
arm:

"Would I do?" she asked. "I never played hymns much, but I could try."

"Oh! Would you?" A flood of relief went over the woman's face, and Ruth
was instantly glad she had offered. She took Mrs. Beck down to the
settlement in her little runabout, and the afternoon's experience opened
a new world to her. It was the first time she had ever come in contact
with the really poor and lowly of the earth, and she proved herself a
true child of God in that she did not shrink from them because many of
them were dirty and poorly clad. Before the first afternoon was over she
had one baby in her arms and three others hanging about her chair with
adoring glances. They could not talk in her language, but they stared
into her beautiful face with their great dark eyes, and spoke queer
unintelligible words to one another about her. The whole little company
were delighted with the new "pretty lady" who had come among them. They
openly examined her simple lovely frock and hat and touched with shy
furtive fingers the blue ribbon that floated over the bench from her
girdle. Mrs. Beck was in the seventh heaven and begged her to come again,
and Ruth, equally charmed, promised to go every Sunday. For it appeared
that the wayward pianist was very irregular and had to be constantly
coaxed.

Ruth entered into the work with zest. She took the children's class which
formerly had been with the older ones, and gathering them about her told
them Bible stories till their young eyes bulged with wonder and their
little hearts almost burst with love of her. Love God? Of course they
would. Try to please Jesus? Certainly, if "Mrs. Ruth," as they called
her, said they should. They adored her.

She fell into the habit of going down during the week and slipping into
their homes with a big basket of bright flowers from her home garden
which she distributed to young and old. Even the men, when they happened
to be home from work, wanted the flowers, and touched them with eager
reverence. Somehow the little community of people so different from
herself filled her thoughts more and more. She began to be troubled that
some of the men drank and beat their wives and little children in
consequence. She set herself to devise ways to keep them from it. She
scraped acquaintance with one or two of the older boys in her own church
and enlisted them to help her, and bought a moving picture machine which
she took to the settlement. She spent hours attending moving picture
shows that she might find the right films for their use. Fortunately she
had money enough for all her schemes, and no one to hinder her good work,
although Aunt Rhoda did object strenuously at first on the ground that
she might "catch something." But Ruth only smiled and said: "That's just
what I'm out for, Auntie, dear! I want to catch them all, and try to make
them live better lives. Other people are going to France. I haven't got a
chance to go yet, but while I stay here I must do something. I can't be
an idler."

Aunt Rhoda looked at her quizzically. She wondered if Ruth was worried
about one of her men friends--and which one?

"If you'd only take up some nice work for the Government, dear, such as
the other girls are doing!" she sighed, "work that would bring you into
contact with nice people! You always have to do something queer. I'm sure
I don't know where you got your low tendencies!"

But Ruth would be off before more could be said. This was an old topic of
Aunt Rhoda's and had been most fully discussed during the young years of
Ruth's life, so that she did not care to enter into it further.

But Ruth was not fully satisfied with just helping her Italians. The very
week she came back from camp she had gone to their old family physician
who held a high and responsible position in the medical world, and made
her plea:

"Daddy-Doctor," she said, using her old childish name for him, "you've
got to find a way for me to go over there and help the war. I know I
don't know much about nursing, but I'm sure I could learn. I've taken
care of Grandpa and Auntie a great many times and watched the trained
nurses, and I'm sure if Lalla Farrington and Bernice Brooks could get
into the Red Cross and go over in such a short time I'm as bright as
they."

"Brighter!" said the old doctor eyeing her approvingly. "But what will
your people say?"

"They'll have to let me, Daddy-Doctor. Besides, everybody else is doing
it, and you know that has great weight with Aunt Rhoda."

"It's a hard life, child! You never saw much of pain and suffering and
horror."

"Well, it's time, then."

"But those men over there you would have to care for will not be like
your grandfather and aunt. They will be dirty and bloody, and covered
with filth and vermin."

"Well, what of that!"

"Could you stand it?"

"So you think I'm a butterfly, too, do you, Daddy-Doctor? Well, I want to
prove to you that I'm not. I've been doing my best to get used to dirt
and distress. I washed a little sick Italian baby yesterday and helped
it's mother scrub her floor and make the house clean."

"The dickens you did!" beamed the doctor proudly. "I always knew you had
a lot of grit. I guess you've got the right stuff in you. But say, if I
help you you've got to tell me the real reason why you want to go, or
else--nothing doing! Understand? I know you aren't like the rest, just
wanting to get into the excitement and meet a lot of officers and have a
good time so you can say afterward you were there. You aren't that kind
of a girl. What's the real reason you want to go? Have you got somebody
over there you're interested in?"

He looked at her keenly, with loving, anxious eyes as her father's friend
who had known her from birth might look.

Ruth's face grew rosy, and her eyes dropped, but lifted again undaunted:

"And if I have, Daddy-Doctor, is there anything wrong about that?"

The doctor frowned:

"It isn't that fat chump of a Wainwright, is it? Because if it is I
shan't lift my finger to help you go."

But Ruth's laugh rang out clear and free.

"Never! dear friend, never! Set your mind at rest about him," she
finished, sobering down. "And if I care for someone, Daddy-Doctor, can't
you trust me I'd pick out someone who was all right?"

"I suppose so!" grumbled the doctor only half satisfied, "but girls are
so dreadfully blind."

"I think you'd like him," she hazarded, her cheeks growing pinker, "that
is, you would if there _is_ anybody," she corrected herself laughing.
"But you see, it's a secret yet and maybe always will be. I'm not sure
that he knows, and I'm not quite sure I know myself----"

"Oh, I see!" said the doctor watching her sweet face with a tender
jealousy in his eyes. "Well, I suppose I'll help you to go, but I'll
shoot him, remember, if he doesn't turn out to be all right. It would
take a mighty superior person to be good enough for you, little girl."

"That's just what he is," said Ruth sweetly, and then rising and stooping
over him she dropped a kiss on the wavy silver lock of hair that hung
over the doctor's forehead.

"Thank you, Daddy-Doctor! I knew you would," she said happily. "And
please don't be too long about it. I'm in a great hurry."

The doctor promised, of course. No one could resist Ruth when she was
like that, and in due time certain forces were set in operation to the
end that she might have her desire.

Meanwhile, as she waited, Ruth filled her days with thoughts of others,
not forgetting Cameron's mother for whom she was always preparing some
little surprise, a dainty gift, some fruit or flowers, a book that she
thought might comfort and while away her loneliness, a restful ride at
the early evening, all the little things that a thoughtful daughter might
do for a mother. And Cameron's mother wrote him long letters about it all
which would have delighted his heart during those dreary days if they
could only have reached him then.

Ruth's letters to Cameron were full of the things she was doing, full of
her sweet wise thoughts that seemed to be growing wiser every day. She
had taken pictures of her Italian friends and introduced him to them one
by one. She had filled every page with little word pictures of her daily
life. It seemed a pity that he could not have had them just when he
needed them most. It would have filled her with dismay if she could have
known the long wandering journey that was before those letters before
they would finally reach him; she might have been discouraged from
writing them.

Little Mrs. Beck was suddenly sent for one Sunday morning to attend her
sister who was very ill, and she hastily called Ruth over the telephone
and begged her to take her place at the Sunday school. Ruth promised to
secure some one to teach the lesson, but found to her dismay that no one
was willing to go at such short notice. And so, with trembling heart she
knelt for a hasty petition that God would guide her and show her how to
lead these simple people in the worship of the day.

As she stood before them trying to make plain in the broken, mixed
Italian and English, the story of the blind man, which was the lesson for
the day, there came over her a sense of her great responsibility. She
knew that these people trusted her and that what she told them they would
believe, and her heart lifted itself in a sharp cry for help, for light,
to give to them. She felt an appalling lack of knowledge and experience
herself. Where had she been all these young years of her life, and what
had she been doing that she had not learned the way of life so that she
might put it before them?

Before her sat a woman bowed with years, her face seamed with sorrow and
hard work, and grimed with lack of care, a woman whose husband frequently
beat her for attending Sunday school. There were four men on the back
seat, hard workers, listening with eager eyes, assenting vigorously when
she spoke of the sorrow on the earth. They, too, had seen trouble. They
sat there patient, sad-eyed, wistful; what could she show them out of the
Book of God to bring a light of joy to their faces? There were little
children whose future looked so full of hard knocks and toil that it
seemed a wonder they were willing to grow up knowing what was before
them. The money that had smoothed her way thus far through life was not
for them. The comfortable home and food and raiment and light and luxury
that had made her life so full of ease were almost unknown to them. Had
she anything better to offer them than mere earthly comforts which
probably could never be theirs, no matter how hard they might strive?
But, after all, money and ease could in no way soothe the pain of the
heart, and she had come close enough already to these people to know they
had each one his own heart's pain and sorrow to bear. There was one man
who had lost five little children by death. That death had come in
consequence of dirt and ignorance made it no easier to bear. The dirt and
ignorance had not all been his fault. People who were wiser and had not
cared to help were to blame. What was the remedy for the world's sorrow,
the world's need?

Ruth knew in a general way that Jesus Christ was the Saviour of the
world, that His name should be the remedy for evil; but how to put it to
them in simple form, ah! that was it. It was Cameron's search for God,
and it seemed that all the world was on the same search. But now to-day
she had suddenly come on some of the footprints of the Man of Sorrow as
He toiled over the mountains of earth searching for lost humanity, and
her own heart echoed His love and sorrow for the world. She cried out in
her helplessness for something to give to these wistful people.

Somehow the prayer must have been answered, for the little congregation
hung upon her words, and one old man with deep creases in his forehead
and kindly wrinkles around his eyes spoke out in meeting and said:

"I like God. I like Him good. I like Him all e time wi' mee! All e time.
Ev'e where! Him live in my house!"

The tears sprang to her eyes with answering sympathy. Here in her little
mission she had found a brother soul, seeking after God. She had another
swift vision then of what the kinship of the whole world meant, and how
Christ could love everybody.

After Sunday school was out little Sanda came stealing up to her:

"Mine brudder die," she said sorrowfully.

"What? Tony? The pretty fat baby? Oh, I'm so sorry!" said Ruth putting
her arm tenderly around the little girl. "Where is your mother? I must go
and see her."

Down the winding unkept road they walked, the delicately reared girl and
the little Italian drudge, to the hovel where the family were housed, a
tumbled-down affair of ancient stone, tawdrily washed over in some season
past with scaling pink whitewash. The noisy abode of the family pig was
in front of the house in the midst of a trim little garden of cabbage,
lettuce, garlic, and tomatoes. But the dirty swarming little house
usually so full of noise and good cheer was tidy to-day, and no guests
hovered on the brief front stoop sipping from a friendly bottle, or
playing the accordion. There was not an accordion heard in the community,
for there had been a funeral that morning and every one was trying to be
quiet out of respect for the bereaved parents.

And there in the open doorway, in his shirt sleeves, crouched low upon
the step, sat the head of the house, his swarthy face bowed upon his
knees, a picture of utter despair, and just beyond the mother's head was
bowed upon her folded arms on the window seat, and thus they mourned in
public silence before their little world.

Ruth's heart went out to the two poor ignorant creatures in their grief
as she remembered the little dark child with the brown curls and glorious
eyes who had resembled one of Raphael's cherubs, and thought how empty
the mother's arms would be without him.

"Oh, Sanda, tell your mother how sorry I am!" she said to the little
girl, for the mother could not speak or understand English. "Tell her not
to mourn so terribly, dear. Tell her that the dear baby is safe and happy
with Jesus! Tell her she will go to Him some day."

And as the little girl interpreted her words, suddenly Ruth knew that
what she was speaking was truth, truth she might have heard before but
never recognized or realized till now.

The mother lifted her sorrowful face all tear swollen and tried a pitiful
smile, nodded to say she understood, then dropped sobbing again upon the
window sill. The father lifted a sad face, not too sober, but blear-eyed
and pitiful, too, in his hopelessness, and nodded as if he accepted the
fact she had told but it gave him no comfort, and then went back to his
own despair.

Ruth turned away with aching heart, praying: "Oh, God, they need you!
Come and comfort them. I don't know how!" But somehow, on her homeward
way she seemed to have met and been greeted by her Saviour.

It was so she received her baptism for the work that she was to do.

The next day permission came for her to go to France, and she entered
upon her brief training.

"Don't you dread to have her go?" asked a neighbor of Aunt Rhoda.

"Oh, yes," sighed the good lady comfortably, "but then she is going in
good company, and it isn't as if all the best people weren't doing it. Of
course, it will be great experience for her, and I wouldn't want to keep
her out of it. She'll meet a great many nice people over there that she
might not have met if she had stayed at home. Everybody, they tell me, is
at work over there. She'll be likely to meet the nobility. It isn't as if
we didn't have friends there, too, who will be sure to invite her over
week ends. If she gets tired she can go to them, you know. And really, I
was glad to have something come up to take her away from that miserable
little country slum she has been so crazy about. I was dreadfully afraid
she would catch something there or else they would rob us and murder us
and kidnap her some day."

And that was the way things presented themselves to Aunt Rhoda!




XIX


All day the shells had been flying thick and fast. When night settled
down the fire was so continuous that one could trace the battle front by
the reflection in the sky.

Cameron stood at his post under the stars and cried out in his soul for
God. For days now Death had stalked them very close. His comrades had
fallen all about him. There seemed to be no chance for safety. And where
was God? Had He no part in all this Hell on earth? Did He not care? Would
He not be found? All his seeking and praying and reading of the little
book seemed to have brought God no nearer. He was going out pretty soon,
in the natural order of the battle if things kept on, out into the other
life, without having found the God who had promised that if he would
believe, and if he would seek with all his heart he would surely find
Him.

Once in a Y.M.C.A. hut on a Sunday night a great tenor came to entertain
them, and sang almost the very words that the stranger back in the States
had written in his little book:

  "If with, all your hearts ye truly seek Him ye shall ever surely
  find him. Thus saith your God!"

And ever since that song had rung its wonderful melody down deep in his
heart he had been seeking, seeking in all the ways he knew, with a
longing that would not be satisfied. And yet he seemed to have found
nothing.

So now as he walked silently beneath the stars, looking up, his soul was
crying out with the longing of despair to find a Saviour, the Christ of
his soul. Amid all the shudderings of the battle-rent earth, the
concussions of the bursting shells, could even God hear a soul's low cry?

Suddenly out in the darkness in front of him there flickered a tiny
light, only a speck of a glint it was, the spark of a cigarette, but it
was where it had no business to be, and it was Cameron's business to see
that it was not there. They had been given strict orders that there must
be no lights and no sounds to give away their position. Even though his
thoughts were with the stars in his search for God, his senses were keen
and on the alert. He sprang instantly and silently, appearing before the
delinquent like a miracle.

"Halt!" he said under his breath. "Can that cigarette!"

"I guess you don't know who I am!" swaggered a voice thick and unnatural
that yet had a familiar sound.

"It makes no difference who you are, you can't smoke on this post while
I'm on duty. Those are my orders!" and with a quick motion he caught the
cigarette from the loose lips and extinguished it, grinding it into the
ground with his heel.

"I'll--have you--c-c-co-marshalled fer this!" stuttered the angry
officer, stepping back unsteadily and raising his fist.

In disgust Cameron turned his back and walked away. How had Wainwright
managed to bring liquor with him to the front? Something powerful and
condensed, no doubt, to steady his nerves in battle. Wainwright had ever
been noted for his cowardice. His breath was heavy with it. How could a
man want to meet death in such a way? He turned to look again, and
Wainwright was walking unsteadily away across the line where they had
been forbidden to go, out into the open where the shells were flying.
Cameron watched him for an instant with mingled feelings. To think he
called himself a man, and dared to boast of marrying such a woman as Ruth
Macdonald. Well, what if he did go into danger and get killed! The world
was better off without him! Cameron's heart was burning hot within him.
His enemy was at last within his power. No one but himself had seen
Wainwright move off in that direction where was certain death within a
few minutes. It was no part of his duty to stop him. He was not supposed
to know he had been drinking.

The whistle of a shell went ricocheting through the air and Cameron
dropped as he had been taught to do, but lifted his eyes in time to see
Wainwright throw up his arms, drop on the edge of the hill, and
disappear. The shell plowed its way in a furrow a few feet away and
Cameron rose to his feet. Sharply, distinctly, in a brief lull of the din
about him he heard his name called. It sounded from down the hill, a cry
of distress, but it did not sound like Wainwright's voice:

"Cameron! Come! Help!"

He obeyed instantly, although, strange to say, he had no thought of its
being Wainwright. He crept cautiously out to the edge of the hill and
looked over. The blare of the heavens made objects below quite visible.
He could see Wainwright huddled as he had fallen. While he looked the
injured man lifted his head, struggled to crawl feebly, but fell back
again. He felt a sense of relief that at last his enemy was where he
could do no more harm. Then, through the dim darkness he saw a figure
coming toward the prostrate form, and stooping over to touch him. It
showed white against the darkness and it paid no heed to the shell that
suddenly whistled overhead. It half lifted the head of the fallen
officer, and then straightened up and looked toward Cameron; and again,
although there was no sound audible now in the din that the battle was
making, he felt himself called.

A strange thrill of awe possessed him. Was that the Christ out there whom
he had been seeking? And what did he expect of him? To come out there to
his enemy? To the man who had been in many ways the curse of his young
life?

Suddenly as he still hesitated a verse from his Testament which had often
come to his notice returned clearly to his mind:

"If thou bringest thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy
brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar.
First be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift."

Was this, then, what was required of him? Had his hate toward Wainwright
been what had hindered him from finding God?

There was no time now to argue that this man was not his brother. The man
would be killed certainly if he lay there many minutes. The opportunity
would pass as quickly as it had come. The Christ he sought was out there
expecting him to come, and he must lose no time in going to Him. How
gladly would he have faced death to go to Him! But Wainwright! That was
different! Could it be this that was required of him? Then back in his
soul there echoed the words: "If with all your heart ye truly seek."
Slowly he crept forward over the brow of the hill, and into the light,
going toward that white figure above the huddled dark one; creeping
painfully, with bullets ripping up the earth about him. He was going to
the Christ, with all his heart--yes, all his heart! Even if it meant
putting by his enmity forever!

Somewhere on the way he understood.

When he reached the fallen man there was no white figure there, but he
was not surprised nor disappointed. The Christ was not there because he
had entered into his heart. He had found Him at last!

                    *       *       *       *       *

Back at the base hospital they told Wainwright one day how Cameron had
crawled with him on his back, out from under the searchlights amid the
shells, and into safety. It was the only thing that saved his life, for
if he had lain long with the wound he had got, there would have been no
chance for him. Wainwright, when he heard it, lay thoughtful for a long
time, a puzzled, half-sullen look on his face. He saw that everybody
considered Cameron a hero. There was no getting away from that the rest
of his life. One could not in decency be an enemy of a man who had saved
one's life. Cameron had won out in a final round. It would not be good
policy not to recognize it. It would be entirely too unpopular. He must
make friends with him. It would be better to patronize him than to be
patronized by him. Perhaps also, down in the depths of his fat selfish
heart there was a little bit of gratitude mixed with it all. For he _did_
love life, and he _was_ a mortal coward.

So he sent for Cameron one day, and Cameron came. He did not want to
come. He dreaded the interview worse than anything he had ever had to
face before. But he came. He came with the same spirit he had gone out
into the shell-fire after Wainwright. Because he felt that the Christ
asked it of him.

He stood stern and grave at the foot of the little hospital cot and
listened while Wainwright pompously thanked him, and told him graciously
that now that he had saved his life he was going to put aside all the old
quarrels and be his friend. Cameron smiled sadly. There was no bitterness
in his smile. Perhaps just the least fringe of amusement, but no
hardness. He even took the bandaged hand that was offered as a token that
peace had come between them who had so long been at war. All the time
were ringing in his heart the words: "With all your heart! With all your
heart!" He had the Christ, what else mattered?

Somehow Wainwright felt that he had not quite made the impression on this
strong man that he had hoped, and in an impulse to be more than gracious
he reached his good hand under his pillow and brought forth an envelope.

When Corporal Cameron saw the writing on that envelop he went white under
the tan of the battlefield, but he stood still and showed no other sign:

"When I get back home I'm going to be married," said the complacent
voice, "and my wife and I will want you to come and take dinner with us
some day. I guess you know who the girl is. She lives in Bryne Haven up
on the hill. Her name is Ruth Macdonald. I've just had a letter from her.
I'll have to write her how you saved my life. She'll want to thank you,
too."

How could Cameron possibly know that that envelope addressed in Ruth
Macdonald's precious handwriting contained nothing but the briefest word
of thanks for an elaborate souvenir that Wainwright had sent her from
France?

"What's the matter with Cammie?" his comrades asked one another when he
came back to his company. "He looks as though he had lost his last
friend. Did he care so much for that Wainwright guy that he saved? I'm
sure I don't see what he sees in him. I wouldn't have taken the trouble
to go out after him, would you?"

Cameron's influence had been felt quietly among his company. In his
presence the men refrained from certain styles of conversation, when he
sat apart and read his Testament they hushed their boisterous talk, and
lately some had come to read with him. He was generally conceded to be
the bravest man in their company, and when a fellow had to die suddenly
he liked Cameron to hold him in his arms.

So far Cameron had not had a scratch, and the men had come to think he
had a charmed life. More than he knew he was beloved of them all. More
than they knew their respect for him was deepening into a kind of awe.
They felt he had a power with him that they understood not. He was still
the silent corporal. He talked not at all of his new-found experience,
yet it shone in his face in a mysterious light. Even after he came from
Wainwright with that stricken look, there was above it all a glory behind
his eyes that not even that could change. For three days he went into the
thick of the battle, moving from one hairbreadth escape to another with
the calmness of an angel who knows his life is not of earth, and on the
fourth day there came the awful battle, the struggle for a position that
had been held by the enemy for four years, and that had been declared
impregnable from the side of the Allies.

The boys all fought bravely and many fell, but foremost of them all
passing unscathed from height to height, Corporal Cameron on the lead in
fearlessness and spirit; and when the tide at last was turned and they
stood triumphant among the dead, and saw the enemy retiring in disorder,
it was Cameron who was still in the forefront, his white face and
tattered uniform catching the last rays of the setting sun.

Later when the survivors had all come together one came to the captain
with a white face and anxious eyes:

"Captain, where's Cammie? We can't find him anywhere."

"He came a half hour ago and volunteered to slip through the enemy's
lines to-night and send us back a message," he said in husky tones.

"But, captain, he was wounded!"

"He was?" The captain looked up startled. "He said nothing about it!"

"He wouldn't, of course," said the soldier. "He's that way. But he was
wounded in the arm. I helped him bind it up."

"How bad?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't let me look. He said he would attend to it
when he got back."

"Well, he's taken a wireless in his pocket and crept across No Man's Land
to find out what the enemy is going to do. He's wearing a dead Jerry's
uniform----!"

The captain turned and brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and a
low sound between a sob and a whispered cheer went up from the gathered
remnant as they rendered homage to their comrade.

                    *       *       *       *       *

For three days the messages came floating in, telling vital secrets that
were of vast strategic value. Then the messages ceased, and the anxious
officers and comrades looked in vain for word. Two more days
passed--three--and still no sign that showed that he was alive, and the
word went forth "Missing!" and "Missing" he was proclaimed in the
newspapers at home.

That night there was a lull in the sector where Cameron's company was
located. No one could guess what was going on across the wide dark space
called No Man's Land. The captain sent anxious messages to other
officers, and the men at the listening posts had no clue to give. It was
raining and a chill bias sleet that cut like knives was driving from the
northeast. Water trickled into the dugouts, and sopped through the
trenches, and the men shuddered their way along dark passages and waited.
Only scattered artillery fire lit up the heavens here and there. It was a
night when all hell seemed let loose to have its way with earth. The
watch paced back and forth and prayed or cursed, and counted the minutes
till his watch would be up. Across the blackness of No Man's Land
pock-marked with great shell craters, there raged a tempest, and even a
Hun would turn his back and look the other way in such a storm.

Slowly, oh so slow that not even the earth would know it was moving,
there crept a dark creature forth from the enemy line. A thing all of
spirit could not have gone more invisibly. Lying like a stone as
motionless for spaces uncountable, stirring every muscle with a
controlled movement that could stop at any breath, lying under the very
nose of the guard without being seen for long minutes, and gone when next
he passed that way; slowly, painfully gaining ground, with a track of
blood where the stones were cruel, and a holding of breath when the
fitful flare lights lit up the way; covered at times by mud from nearby
bursting shells; faint and sick, but continuing to creep; chilled and
sore and stiff, blinded and bleeding and torn, shell holes and stones and
miring mud, slippery and sharp and never ending, the long, long
trail----!

"Halt!" came a sharp, clear voice through the night.

"Pat! Come here! What is that?" whispered the guard. "Now watch! I'm sure
I saw it move----There! I'm going to it!"

"Better look out!" But he was off and back with something in his arms.
Something in a ragged blood-soaked German uniform.

They turned a shaded flash light into the face and looked:

"Pat, it's Cammie!" The guard was sobbing.

At sound of the dear old name the inert mass roused to action.

"Tell Cap--they're planning to slip away at five in the morning. Tell him
if he wants to catch them he must do it _now_! Don't mind me! Go quick!"

The voice died away and the head dropped back.

With a last wistful look Pat was off to the captain, but the guard
gathered Cameron up in his arms tenderly and nursed him like a baby,
crooning over him in the sleet and dark, till Pat came back with a
stretcher and some men who bore him to the dressing station lying inert
between them.

While men worked over his silent form his message was flashing to
headquarters and back over the lines to all the posts along that front.
The time had come for the big drive. In a short time a great company of
dark forms stole forth across No Man's Land till they seemed like a wide
dark sea creeping on to engulf the enemy.

Next morning the newspapers of the world set forth in monstrous type the
glorious victory and how the Americans had stolen upon the enemy and cut
them off from the rest of their army, wiping out a whole salient.

But while the world was rejoicing, John Cameron lay on his little hard
stretcher in the tent and barely breathed. He had not opened his eyes nor
spoken again.




XX


A nurse stepped up to the doctor's desk:

"A new girl is here ready for duty. Is there any special place you want
her put?" she asked in a low tone.

The doctor looked up with a frown:

"One of those half-trained Americans, I suppose?" he growled. "Well,
every little helps. I'd give a good deal for half a dozen fully trained
nurses just now. Suppose you send her to relieve Miss Jennings. She can't
do any harm to number twenty-nine."

"Isn't there any hope for him?" the nurse asked, a shade of sadness in
her eyes.

"I'm afraid not!" said the doctor shortly. "He won't take any interest in
living, that's the trouble. He isn't dying of his wounds. Something is
troubling him. But it's no use trying to find out what. He shuts up like
a clam."

The new nurse flushed outside the door as she heard herself discussed and
shut her firm little lips in a determined way as she followed the head
nurse down the long rows of cots to an alcove at the end where a screen
shut the patient from view.

Miss Jennings, a plain girl with tired eyes, gave a few directions and
she was left with her patient. She turned toward the cot and stopped with
a soft gasp of recognition, her face growing white and set as she took in
the dear familiar outline of the fine young face before her. Every word
she had heard outside the doctor's office rang distinctly in her ears. He
was dying. He did not want to live. With another gasp that was like a sob
she slipped to her knees beside the cot, forgetful of her duties, of the
ward outside, or the possible return of the nurses, forgetful of
everything but that he was there, her hero of the years!

She reached for one of his hands, the one that was not bandaged, and she
laid her soft cheek against it, and held her breath to listen. Perhaps
even now behind that quiet face the spirit had departed beyond her grasp.

There was no flutter of the eyelids even. She could not see that he still
breathed, although his hand was not cold, and his face when she touched
it still seemed human. She drew closer in an agony of fear, and laid her
lips against his cheek, and then her face softly, with one hand about his
other cheek. Her lips were close to his ear now.

"John!" she whispered softly, "John! My dear knight!"

There was a quiver of the eyelids now, a faint hesitating sigh. She
touched her lips to his and spoke his name again. A faint smile flickered
over his features as if he were seeing other worlds of beauty that had no
connection here. But still she continued to press her face against his
cheek and whisper his name.

At last he opened his eyes, with a bewildered, wondering gaze and saw
her. The old dear smile broke forth:

"Ruth! You here? Is this--heaven?"

"Not yet," she whispered softly. "But it's earth, and the war is over!
I've come to help you get well and take you home! It's really you and
you're not 'Missing' any more."

Then without any excuse at all she laid her lips on his forehead and
kissed him. She had read her permit in his eyes.

His well arm stole out and pressed her to him hungrily:

"It's--really you and you don't belong to anybody else?" he asked,
anxiously searching her face for his answer.

"Oh, John! I never did belong to anybody else but you. All my life ever
since I was a little girl I've thought you were wonderful! Didn't you
know that? Didn't you see down at camp? I'm sure it was written all over
my face."

His hand crept up and pressed her face close against his:

"Oh, my darling!" he breathed, "_my_ darling! The most wonderful girl in
the world!"

When the doctor and nurse pushed back the screen and entered the little
alcove the new nurse sat demurely at the foot of the cot, but a little
while later the voice of the patient rang out joyously:

"Doctor, how soon can I get out of this. I think I've stayed here about
long enough."

The wondering doctor touched his patient's forehead, looked at him
keenly, felt his pulse with practised finger, and replied:

"I've been thinking you'd get to this spot pretty soon. Some beef tea,
nurse, and make it good and strong. We've got to get this fellow on his
feet pretty quick for I can see he's about done lying in bed."

Then the wounds came in for attention, and Ruth stood bravely and
watched, quivering in her heart over the sight, yet never flinching in
her outward calm.

When the dressing of the wounds was over the doctor stood back and
surveyed his patient:

"Well, you're in pretty good shape now, and if you keep on you can leave
here in about a week. Thank fortune there isn't any more front to go back
to! But now, if you don't mind I'd like to know what's made this
marvellous change in you?"

The light broke out on Cameron's face anew. He looked at the doctor
smiling, and then he looked at Ruth, and reached out his hand to get
hers:

"You see," he said, "I--we--Miss Macdonald's from my home town and----"

"I see," said the doctor looking quizzically from one happy face to the
other, "but hasn't she always been from your home town?"

Cameron twinkled with his old Irish grin:

"Always," he said solemnly, "but, you see, she hasn't always been here."

"I see," said the doctor again looking quizzically into the sweet face of
the girl, and doing reverence to her pure beauty with his gaze. "I
congratulate you, corporal," he said, and then turning to Ruth he said
earnestly: "And you, too, Madame. He is a man if there ever was one."

In the quiet evening when the wards were put to sleep and Ruth sat beside
his cot with her hand softly in his, Cameron opened his eyes from the nap
he was supposed to be taking and looked at her with his bright smile.

"I haven't told you the news," he said softly. "I have found God. I found
Him out on the battlefield and He is great! It's all true! But you have
to search for Him with _all_ your heart, and not let any little old hate
or anything else hinder you, or it doesn't do any good."

Ruth, with her eyes shining, touched her lips softly to the back of his
bandaged hand that lay near her and whispered softly:

"I have found Him, too, dear. And I realize that He has been close beside
me all the time, only my heart was so full of myself that I never saw Him
before. But, oh, hasn't He been wonderful to us, and won't we have a
beautiful time living for Him together the rest of our lives?"

Then the bandaged hand went out and folded her close, and Cameron uttered
his assent in words too sacred for other ears to hear.