During the service she sat gazing straight at the minister without comprehending a word that he said.  Never once did her glance stray to that khaki-clad figure beside her, but her thoughts played around him like lightning.  What if she should get up her courage and ask him to dinner, how would she ever be able to walk out the street with him!  And once she had got him to her cottage, what on earth would she talk to him about?  Her hands grew cold as she thought about it.  Yet something warned her it was now or never, and that it was only by taking the hated step and getting it over with, that she could regain the peace of mind that had of late deserted her.

The Doxology found her weakening, but the Benediction stiffened her resolve, and when the final Amen sounded, she turned blindly to the man beside her, and said, hardly above her breath: 

“If you ain’t got any place to go to dinner, you can come home with me.”

The tall figure turned toward her, and a pair of melancholy brown eyes looked down into hers: 

“You will excuse if I do not quite comprehend your meaning,” he said politely, with a strong foreign accent.

Miss Mink was plunged into instant panic; suppose he was a German?  Suppose she should be convicted for entertaining a spy!  Then she remembered his uniform and was slightly reassured.

“I said would you come home to dinner with me?” she repeated weakly, with a fervent prayer that he would decline.

But the soldier had no such intention.  He bowed gravely, and picked up his hat and overcoat.

Miss Mink, looking like a small tug towing a big steamer, shamefacedly made her way to the nearest exit, and got him out through the Sunday-school room.  She would take him home through a side street, feed him and send him away as soon as possible.  It was a horrible ordeal, but Miss Mink was not one to turn back once she had faced a difficult situation.  As they passed down the broad steps into the brilliant October sunshine, she noticed with relief that his shoes were not muddy.  Then, before she could make other observations, her mind was entirely preoccupied with a large, firm hand that grasped her elbow, and seemed to half lift her slight weight from step to step.  Miss Mink’s elbow was not used to such treatment and it indignantly freed itself before the pavement was reached.  The first square was traveled in embarrassed silence, then Miss Mink made a heroic effort to break the ice: 

“My name is Mink,” she said, “Miss Libby Mink.  I do dress-making over on Sixth Street.”

“I am Bowinski,” volunteered her tall companion, “first name Alexis.  I am a machinist before I enlist in the army.”

“I knew you were some sort of a Dago,” said Miss Mink.

“But no, Madame, I am Russian.  My home is in Kiev in Ukrania.”

“Why on earth didn’t you stay there?” Miss Mink asked from the depths of her heart.