Margaret Morgan, perhaps better than any other, knew in those days what was in Derry’s heart.  She knew the things against which he had struggled, and she had rebelled hotly, “Why should he be sacrificed?” she had asked her husband more than once during the three years which had preceded America’s entrance into the war.  “He wants to be over there driving an ambulance—­doing his bit.  Aunt Edith always idealized the General, and Derry is paying the price.”

“Most women idealize the men they love, honey-girl.”  Winston Morgan was from the South, and he drew upon its store of picturesque endearments to express his joy and pride in his own Peggy.  “And if they didn’t where should we be?”

She had leaned her head against him.  “I don’t need to idealize you,” she had said, comfortably, “but the General is different.  Aunt Edith made Derry live his father’s life, not his own, and it has moulded him into something less than he might have been if he had been allowed more initiative.”

Winston had shaken his head.  “Discipline is a mighty good thing in the Army, Peggy, and it’s a mighty good thing in life.  Derry Drake is as hard as steel, and as finely tempered.  If he ever does break loose, he’ll be all the more dynamic for having held himself back.”

Margaret, conceding all that, was yet constrained to pour out upon Derry the wealth of her womanly sympathy.  It was perhaps the knowledge of this as well as his devotion to her children which brought him often to her door.

Tonight she was sitting on a low-backed seat in front of the fire with a child on each side of her.  She was in white, her dark hair in a simple shining knot, a little pearl heart which had been Captain Morgan’s parting gift, her only ornament.

“Go on with your story,” he said, as he came in.  “I just want to listen and do nothing.”

She glanced up at him.  He looked tired, unlike himself, depressed.

“Anything the matter?”

“Father isn’t well.  Dr. McKenzie has taken the case.  Richards has gone to the front.  Bronson will call me if there are any unfavorable developments.”

Margaret-Mary, curled up like a kitten in the curve of Cousin Derry’s arm, was exploring his vest pocket.  She found two very small squares of Washington taffy wrapped in wax paper, one for herself and one for Teddy.  It was Derry’s war-time offering.  No other candies were permitted by Margaret’s patriotism.  Her children ate molasses on their bread, maple sugar on their cereal.  Her soldier was in France, and there were other soldiers, not one of whom should suffer because of the wanton waste of food by the people who stayed softly at home.

“You tell us a story, Uncle Derry,” Teddy pleaded as he ate his taffy.

“I’d rather listen to your mother.”

“They are tired of me,” Margaret told him.

“We are not ti-yard,” her small son enunciated carefully, “but you said you had to fix the f’owers.”