“Where’s Lenore?” she heard him ask, down in the dining-room.

“Lenorry’s mooning,” replied Kathleen, with a giggle.

“Ah-huh?  Well, whereabouts is she moonin’?” went on Anderson.

“Why, in her room!” retorted the child.  “And you can’t get a word out of her with a crowbar.”

Anderson’s laugh rang out with a jingle of tableware.  He was eating his supper.  Then Lenore heard her mother and Rose and Kathleen all burst out with news of a letter come that day from Jim, away training to be a soldier.  It was Rose who read this letter aloud to her father, and outside of her swift, soft voice the absolute silence attested to the attention of the listeners.  Lenore’s heart shook as she distinguished a phrase here and there, for Jim’s letter had been wonderful for her.  He had gained weight!  He was getting husky enough to lick his father!  He was feeling great!  There was not a boy in the outfit who could beat him to a stuffed bag of a German soldier!  And he sure could make some job with that old bayonet!  So ran Jim’s message to the loved ones at home.  Then a strange pride replaced the quake in Lenore’s heart.  Not now would she have had Jim stay home.  She had sacrificed him.  Something subtler than thought told her she would never see him again.  And, oh, how dear he had become!

Then Anderson roared his delight in that letter and banged the table with his fist.  The girls excitedly talked in unison.  But the mother was significantly silent.  Lenore forgot them presently and went back to her dreaming.  It was just about dark when her father called.

“Lenore.”

“Yes, father,” she replied.

“I’m comin’ up,” he said, and his heavy tread sounded in the hall.  It was followed by the swift patter of little feet.  “Say, you kids go back.  I want to talk to Lenore.”

“Daddy,” came Kathleen’s shrill, guilty whisper, “I was only in fun—­about her mooning.”

The father laughed again and slowly mounted the stairs.  Lenore reflected uneasily that he seldom came to her room.  Also, when he was most concerned with trouble he usually sought her.

“Hello!  All in the dark?” he said, as he came in.  “May I turn on the light?”

Lenore assented, though not quite readily.  But Anderson did not turn on the light.  He bumped into things on the way to where she was curled up in her window-seat, and he dropped wearily into Lenore’s big arm-chair.

“How are you, daddy?” she inquired.

“Dog tired, but feelin’ fine,” he replied.  “I’ve got a meetin’ at eight an’ I need a rest.  Reckon I’d like to smoke—­an’ talk to you—­if you don’t mind.”

“I’d sure rather listen to my dad than any one,” she replied, softly.  She knew he had come with news or trouble or need of help.  He always began that way.  She could measure his mood by the preliminaries before his disclosure.  And she fortified herself.

“Wasn’t that a great letter from the boy?” began Anderson, as he lit a cigar.  By the flash of the match Lenore got a glimpse of his dark and unguarded face.  Indeed, she did well to fortify herself.