“No, girls don’t; women don’t, when they give their men up to their country.  They think they’ll come marching back, somehow, just as gay as they went, or if it’s an empty sleeve, or even an empty pantaloon, it’s all the more glory, and they’re so much the prouder of them, poor things.”

The tears began to run down Editha’s face; she had not wept till then; but it was now such a relief to be understood that the tears came.

“No, you didn’t expect him to get killed,” Mrs. Gearson repeated in a voice which was startlingly like George’s again.  “You just expected him to kill some one else, some of those foreigners, that weren’t there because they had any say about it, but because they had to be there, poor wretches—­conscripts, or whatever they call ’em.  You thought it would be all right for my George, your George, to kill the sons of those miserable mothers and the husbands of those girls that you would never see the faces of.”  The woman lifted her powerful voice in a psalmlike note.  “I thank my God he didn’t live to do it!  I thank my God they killed him first, and that he ain’t livin’ with their blood on his hands!” She dropped her eyes which she had raised with her voice, and glared at Editha.  “What you got that black on for?” She lifted herself by her powerful arms so high that her helpless body seemed to hang limp its full length.  “Take it off, take it off, before I tear it from your back!”

* * * * *

The lady who was passing the summer near Balcom’s Works was sketching Editha’s beauty, which lent itself wonderfully to the effects of a colorist.  It had come to that confidence which is rather apt to grow between artist and sitter, and Editha had told her everything.

“To think of your having such a tragedy in your life!” the lady said.  She added:  “I suppose there are people who feel that way about war.  But when you consider how much this war has done for the country!  I can’t understand such people, for my part.  And when you had come all the way out there to console her—­got up out of a sick bed!  Well!”

“I think,” Editha said, magnanimously, “she wasn’t quite in her right mind; and so did papa.”

“Yes,” the lady said, looking at Editha’s lips in nature and then at her lips in art, and giving an empirical touch to them in the picture.  “But how dreadful of her!  How perfectly—­excuse me—­how vulgar!”

A light broke upon Editha in the darkness which she felt had been without a gleam of brightness for weeks and months.  The mystery that had bewildered her was solved by the word; and from that moment she rose from grovelling in shame and self-pity, and began to live again in the ideal.

The Stout Miss Hopkins’s Bicycle

BY OCTAVE THANET

There was a skeleton in Mrs. Margaret Ellis’s closet; the same skeleton abode also in the closet of Miss Lorania Hopkins.