felt that even he could clear the bar of French “politeness”—­so much more terrifying than German bullets—­and slip unnoticed into that outnumbered army.  One’s manners wouldn’t matter on the Marne tonight, the night of the eighth of September, 1914.  There was nothing on earth he would so gladly be as an atom in that wall of flesh and blood that rose and melted and rose again before the city which had meant so much through all the centuries—­but had never meant so much before.  Its name had come to have the purity of an abstract idea.  In great sleepy continents, in land-locked harvest towns, in the little islands of the sea, for four days men watched that name as they might stand out at night to watch a comet, or to see a star fall.

X

It was Sunday afternoon and Claude had gone down to the mill house, as Enid and her mother had returned from Michigan the day before.  Mrs. Wheeler, propped back in a rocking chair, was reading, and Mr. Wheeler, in his shirt sleeves, his Sunday collar unbuttoned, was sitting at his walnut secretary, amusing himself with columns of figures.  Presently he rose and yawned, stretching his arms above his head.

“Claude thinks he wants to begin building right away, up on the quarter next the timber claim.  I’ve been figuring on the lumber.  Building materials are cheap just now, so I suppose I’d better let him go ahead.”

Mrs. Wheeler looked up absently from the page.  “Why, I suppose so.”

Her husband sat down astride a chair, and leaning his arms on the back of it, looked at her.  “What do you think of this match, anyway?  I don’t know as I’ve heard you say.”

“Enid is a good, Christian girl...”  Mrs. Wheeler began resolutely, but her sentence hung in the air like a question.

He moved impatiently.  “Yes, I know.  But what does a husky boy like Claude want to pick out a girl like that for?  Why, Evangeline, she’ll be the old woman over again!”

Apparently these misgivings were not new to Mrs. Wheeler, for she put out her hand to stop him and whispered in solemn agitation, “Don’t say anything!  Don’t breathe!”

“Oh, I won’t interfere!  I never do.  I’d rather have her for a daughter-in-law than a wife, by a long shot.  Claude’s more of a fool than I thought him.”  He picked up his hat and strolled down to the barn, but his wife did not recover her composure so easily.  She left the chair where she had hopefully settled herself for comfort, took up a feather duster and began moving distractedly about the room, brushing the surface of the furniture.  When the war news was bad, or when she felt troubled about Claude, she set to cleaning house or overhauling the closets, thankful to be able to put some little thing to rights in such a disordered world.