“Anderson!  You took—­it upon—­yourself—­” gasped Dorn, slowly rising.  If he had been white-faced before, he was ghastly now.

“Sure I did....  Good Lord!  Dorn, don’t imagine I ever questioned your nerve....  It’s only you’re not needed—­or rather, you’re needed more at home....  I let my son Jim go to war.  That’s enough for one family!”

But Dorn did not grasp the significance of Anderson’s reply.

“How dared you?  What right had you?” he demanded passionately.

“No right at all, lad,” replied Anderson.  “I just recommended it an’ the official approved it.”

“But I refuse!” cried Dorn, with ringing fury.  “I won’t accept exemption.”

“Talk sense now, even if you are mad,” returned Anderson, rising.  “I’ve paid you a high compliment, young man, an’ offered you a lot.  More ’n you see, I guess....  Why won’t you accept exemption?”

“I’m going to war!” was the grim, hard reply.

“But you’re needed here.  You’d be more of a soldier here.  You could do more for your country than if you gave a hundred lives.  Can’t you see that?”

“Yes, I can,” assented Dorn, as if forced.

“You’re no fool, an’ you’re a loyal American.  Your duty is to stay home an’ raise wheat.”

“I’ve a duty to myself,” returned Dorn, darkly.

“Son, your fortune stares you right in the face—­here.  Are you goin’ to turn from it?”

“Yes.”

“You want to get in that war?  You’ve got to fight?”

“Yes.”

“Ah-huh!” Anderson threw up his hands in surrender.  “Got to kill some Germans, hey?...  Why not come out to my harvest fields an’ hog-stick a few of them German I.W.W.’s?”

Dorn had no reply for that.

“Wal, I’m dog-gone sorry,” resumed Anderson.  “I see it’s a tough place for you, though I can’t understand.  You’ll excuse me for mixin’ in your affairs....  An’ now, considerin’ other ways I’ve really helped you, I hope you’ll stay at my home for a few days.  We all owe you a good deal.  My family wants to make up to you.  Will you stay?”

“Thank you—­yes—­for a few days,” replied Dorn.

“Good!  That’ll help some.  Mebbe, after runnin’ around ‘Many Waters’ with Le—­with the girls—­you’ll begin to be reasonable.  I hope so.”

“You think me ungrateful!” exclaimed Dorn, shrinking.

“I don’t think nothin’,” replied Anderson.  “I turn you over to Lenore.”  He laughed as he pronounced Dorn’s utter defeat.  And his look at Lenore was equivalent to saying the issue now depended upon her, and that he had absolutely no doubt of its outcome.  “Lenore, take him in to meet mother an’ the girls, an’ entertain him.  I’ve got work to do.”

Lenore felt the blushes in her cheeks and was glad Dorn did not look at her.  He seemed locked in somber thought.  As she touched him and bade him come he gave a start; then he followed her into the hall.  Lenore closed her father’s door, and the instant she stood alone with Dorn a wonderful calmness came to her.