“Yes.  And I’ve talked with mothers who have girls Lorna’s age.  They’ve all run wild the last year or so.  Dances and rides!  Last summer I was worried half to death.  But we mothers don’t think the girls are really bad.  They’re just crazy for fun, excitement, boys.  Times and pleasures have changed.  The girls say the mothers don’t understand.  Maybe we don’t.  I try to be patient.  I trust Lorna.  I can’t see through it all.”

“Don’t worry, mother,” said Lane, patting her hand.  “I’ll see through it for you.  And if Lorna is—­well, running too much—­wild as you said—­I’ll stop her.”

His mother shook her head.

“One thing we mothers all agree on.  These girls, of this generation, say fourteen to sixteen, can’t be stopped.”

“Then that is a serious matter.  It must be a peculiarity of the day.  Maybe the war left this condition.”

“The war changed all things, my son,” replied his mother, sadly.

Lane walked thoughtfully down the street toward Doctor Bronson’s office.  As long as he walked slowly he managed not to give any hint of his weakness.  The sun was shining with steely brightness and the March wind was living up to its fame.  He longed for summer and hot days in quiet woods or fields where daisies bloomed.  Would he live to see the Indian summer days, the smoky haze, the purple asters?

Lane was admitted at once into the office of Doctor Bronson, a little, gray, slight man with shrewd, kind eyes and a thoughtful brow.  For years he had been a friend as well as physician to the Lanes, and he had always liked Daren.  His surprise was great and his welcome warm.  But a moment later he gazed at Lane with piercing eyes.

“Look here, boy, did you go to the bad over there?” he demanded.

“How do you mean, Doctor?”

“Did you let down—­debase yourself morally?”

“No.  But I went to the bad physically and spiritually.”

“I see that.  I don’t like the color of your face....  Well, well, Daren.  It was hell, wasn’t it?  Did you kill a couple of Huns for me?”

Questions like this latter one always alienated Lane in some unaccountable way.  It must have been revealed in his face.

“Never mind, Daren.  I see that you did....  I’m glad you’re back alive.  Now what can I do for you?”

“I’ve been discharged from three hospitals in the last two months—­not because I was well, but because I was in better shape than some other poor devil.  Those doctors in the service grew hard—­they had to be hard—­but they saw the worst, the agony of the war.  I always felt sorry for them.  They never seemed to eat or sleep or rest.  They had no time to save a man.  It was cut him up or tie him up—­then on to the next....  Now, Doc, I want you to look me over and—­well—­tell me what to expect.”

“All right,” replied Doctor Bronson, gruffly.

“And I want you to promise not to tell mother or any one.  Will you?”