Jane was waked usually by the hoarse crow of an audacious little rooster, who sent his challenge to the rising sun.

But on Thanksgiving morning, she found herself sitting up in bed in the deep darkness—slim and white and shivering—oppressed by some phantom of the night.

She came to it gradually. The strange events of yesterday. Evans. Her own share in his future.

Her room was icy. She climbed out of bed, and closed the windows, lighted the lamp on her little table, wrapped herself in a warm robe, and sat up among her pillows, to think the thing out.

The lamp had a yellow shade, and shone like a full moon among the shadows. Jane, just beyond the circle of light, was a spectral figure with her black hair and the faint blue of her gown.

Her own share in Evans’ future? Had she really linked her life with his? She had promised to pray that he might get back—she had pledged youth, hope and constancy to his cause. And she had promised before she had seen that stumbling figure in the snow!In the matters of romance, Jane’s thoughts had always ventured. She had dreamed of a gallant lover, a composite hero, one who should combine the reckless courage of a Robin Hood with the high moralities of a Galahad. With such a lover one might gallop through life to a piping tune. Or if the Galahad predominated in her hero, to an inspiring processional!

And here was Evans, gray and gaunt, shaken by tremors, fitting himself into the background of her future. And she didn’t want him there. Oh, not as he had been out there in the snow!

Yet she was sorry for him with a sympathy that wrung her heart. She couldn’t hurt him. She wouldn’t. Was there no way out of it?

Her hands went up to her face. She had a simple and childlike faith. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “make us all—happy——”

Her cheeks were wet as she lay back on her pillows. And a certain serenity followed her little prayer. Things would work together in some way for good.... She would let it rest at that.

When at last the rooster crowed, Jane cast off the covers and went to the windows, drawing back the curtains. There was a faint whiteness in the eastern sky—amethyst and pearl, aquamarine, the day had dawned!

Well, after all, wasn’t every day a new world? And this day of all days. One must think about the thankful things!She discussed that with Baldy at the breakfast table.

Baldy scoffed. “I’m not a hypocrite. It has been a rotten year.”

“Well, money isn’t everything, and we have each other.”

“Money is a lot. And just because we haven’t all been killed off is no special reason why we should thank the Lord.”

“Baldy, I want to thank him for the little things. Our little house, and warmth and light, and you, coming home at night——”

“My dear child, we don’t own the house, and I’m really not much when I get here.”

“That isn’t true, Baldy. And aren’t you thankful that you have me?”

There was a quaver in her voice, and he was not hard-hearted. Neither was he in a mood for sentiment.

“What’s the matter, old dear? Want me to throw bouquets at you?”

“Yes, I do. I’m low in my mind this morning.”

He saw that she meant it. “Anything happened, Janey?” he asked in a different tone.

“Oh, nothing to talk about. But—I wish I had a shoulder to weep on, Baldy.”

“Weep on mine.”

She shook her head. “No. You’d be about as comforting as a wooden Indian.”

“I like that,” hotly.“Your intentions are good. But your mind isn’t on me. It’s on Edith Towne.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Oh, you’ve one ear cocked towards the telephone——”

He flushed. “Well, who wouldn’t? I want to hear from her.”

He wanted to hear so much that he did not go to church lest he miss her call. But Jane went, and sat in the Barnes’ pew, and was thankful, as she had said, for love and warmth and light.

Throughout the sermon, she stared at the stained glass window which was just above the Follette pew. It was a memorial to two lads who had lost their lives in France. The window showed the young heroes as shining knights—and that was the way people thought about them. They had been, really, rather commonplace fellows. But death had transfigured them. They would remain always in the eyes of this world as young and splendid.

And there beneath them sat this morning a man who had, too, been young and splendid. But who was wrapped in no shining armor of illusion. He had come back a hero, but had been among them long enough to lose his halo. It was manifestly unfair. Jane resolved that she would keep in her heart always that vision of Evans as a shining knight. Whoever else forgot, she would not forget.

Evans, with his mother in the pew, looked straight ahead of him. He seemed worn and weary —a dark shadow set against the brightness of those comrades on the glowing glass.

After church, he waited in the aisle for Jane. “I’ll walk down with you. Mother is going to ride with Dr. Hallam.”

They walked a little way in silence, then he said, “Rusty is comfortable this morning.”

“Your mother told me over the telephone.”

He limped along at her side. “Jane, I didn’t sleep last night—thinking about it. It is a thing I can’t understand. A dreadful thing.”

“I understand. You love Rusty. It was because you love him so much——”

“But to let a woman do it. Jane, do you remember—years ago? That mad dog?”

She did remember. Evans had killed it in the road to save a child. It had been a horrible experience, but not for a moment had he hesitated.

“I wasn’t afraid then, Janey.”

“This was different. You couldn’t see the thing you loved hurt. It wasn’t fear. It was affection.”

“Oh, don’t gloss it over. I know what you felt. I saw it in your eyes.”

“Saw what?”

“Contempt.”

She turned on him. “You didn’t. Perhaps, just at first. I didn’t understand....” She fought for self-control, but in spite of it, the tears rolled down her cheeks.“Don’t, Janey, don’t.” He was in an agony of remorse. “I’ve made you cry.”

She blinked away the tears. “It wasn’t contempt, Evans.”

“Well, it should have been. Why not? No man who calls himself a man would have let you do it.”

They had come to the path under the pines, and were alone in that still world. Jane tucked her hand in the crook of Evans’ arm. “Dear boy, stop thinking about it.”

“I shall never stop.”

“I want you to promise me that you’ll try. Evans, you know we are going to fight it out together....”

His eyes did not meet hers. “Do you think I’d let you? Well, you think wrong.” He began to walk rapidly, so that it was hard to keep pace with him. “I’m not worth it.”

And now quite as suddenly as she had cried, she laughed, and the laugh had a break in it. “You’re worth everything that America has to give you.” She told him of the things she had thought of in church. “You are as much of a hero as any of them.”

He shook his head. “All that hero stuff is dead and gone, my dear. We idealize the dead, but not the living.”

It was true and she knew it. But she did not want to admit it. “Evans,” she said, and laid her cheek for a moment against the rough sleeve of his coat, “don’t make me unhappy. Let me help.”

“You don’t know what you are asking. You’d grow tired of it. Any woman would.”

“Why look ahead? Can’t we live for each day?”

She had lighted a flame of hope in him. “If I might——” eagerly.

“Why not? Begin right now. What are you thankful for, Evans?”

“Not much,” uneasily.

“Well, I’ll tell you three things. Books and your mother and me. Say that over—out loud.”

He tried to enter into her mood. “Books and my mother and Jane.”

She caught at another thought. “It almost rhymes with Stevenson’s ‘books and food and summer rain,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yes. What a man he was—cheerful in the face of death. Jane, I believe I could face death more cheerfully than life——”

“Don’t say such things”—they had come to the little house on the terrace, “don’t say such things. Don’t think them.”

“As a man thinks—— Do you believe it?”

“I believe some of it.”

“We’ll talk about it to-night. No, I can’t come in. Dinner is at seven.” He lingered a moment longer. “Do you know what a darling you are, Jane?”

She stood watching him as he limped away. Once he turned and waved. She waved back and her eyes were blurred with tears.

In Jane’s next letter to Judy she told about the dinner.

“I didn’t know what to wear. But Baldy insisted on my old white. In his present mid-Victorian mood he would like me in ‘book-muslin,’ if things were made of it. It is a wispy rag of chiffon, and I was hard up for slippers, so Baldy painted a pair of gray suede with silver paint, and I made a flat band of silver leaves for my hair.

“The effect wasn’t bad, even Baldy admitted it, and Evans quoted Shelley—something about ‘an orbed maiden with white fire laden.’ Evans and Baldy are having a perfect orgy of Keats and Shelley. They soar over our heads. They hate realism and pessimism—they say it is a canker at the heart of civilization. That all healthy nations are idealistic and optimistic. It is only when countries are senile that they grow cynical and sour. You should hear them.

“We had a delicious dinner. It seems to me, Judy, that my mind dwells a great deal on things to eat. But, after all, why shouldn’t I? Housekeeping is my job.

“Mrs. Follette doesn’t attempt to do anything that she can’t do well, and it was all so simple and satisfying. In the center of the table was some of the fruit that Mr. Towne sent in a silver epergne, and there were four Sheffield candlesticks with white candles.

“Mrs. Follette carved the turkey. Evans can’t do things like that—she wore her perennial black lace and pearls, and in spite of everything, Judy, I can’t help liking her, though she is such a beggar on horseback. They haven’t a cent, except what she makes from the milk, but she looks absolutely the lady of the manor.

“The cousins are very fashionable. One of them, Muriel Follette, knows Edith Towne intimately. She told us all about the wedding, and how people are blaming Edith for running away and are feeling terribly sorry for Mr. Towne. Of course they didn’t know that Baldy and I had ever laid eyes on either of them. But you should have seen Baldy’s eyes, when Muriel said things about Edith. I was scared stiff for fear he’d say something. You know how his temper flares.

“Well, Muriel said some catty things. That everybody is sure that Delafield Simms is in love with someone else, and that they are saying Edith might have known it if she hadn’t always looked upon herself as the center of the universe. And they feel that if her heart is broken, the decent thing would be to mourn in the bosom of her family. Of course I’m not quoting her exact words, but you’ll get the idea.

“And Baldy thinks his queen can do no wrong, and was almost bursting. Judy, he walks in a dream. I don’t know what good it is going to do him to feel like that. He will have to always worship at a distance like Dante. Or was it Abelard? I always get those grande passions mixed.

“Anyhow, there you have it. Edith Towne rode in Baldy’s Ford, and he has hitched that little wagon to a star!

“Well, after dinner, we set the victrola going and Baldy had to dance with Muriel. She dances extremely well, and I know he enjoyed it, though he wouldn’t admit it. And Muriel enjoyed it. There’s no denying that Baldy has a way with him.

“After they had danced a while everybody played bridge, except Evans and me. You know how I hate it, and it makes Evans nervous. So we went in the library and talked. Evans is dreadfully discouraged about himself. I wish that you were here and that we could talk it over. But it is hard to do it at long distance. There ought to be some way to help him. Sometimes it seems that I can’t stand it when I remember what he used to be.”

Evans had carried Jane off to the library high-handedly. “I want you,” was all the reason he vouchsafed as they came into the shabby room with its leaping flames in the fireplace, its book-lined walls, its imposing portrait above the mantel.

The portrait showed Evans’ grandfather, and beneath it was a photograph of Evans himself. The likeness between the two men was striking—there was the same square set of the shoulders, the same bright, waved hair, the same air of youth and high spirits. The grandfather in the portrait wore a blue uniform, the grandson was in khaki, but they were, without a question, two of a kind.

“You belong here, Jane,” said Evans, “on one side of the fireplace, with me on the other. That’s the way I always see you when I shut my eyes.”

“You see me now with your eyes wide open——”“Yes. Jane, I told Mother this afternoon that I wouldn’t go to New York. So that’s settled, without your saying anything.”

“How does she feel about it?”

“Oh, she still thinks that I should go. But I’ll stay here,” he moved his head restlessly. “I want to be where you are, Jane. And now, my dear, we’re going to talk things out. You know that yesterday you made a sort of—promise. That you’d pray for me to get back—and that if I got back—well, you’d give me a chance. Jane, I want your prayers, but not your promise.”

“Why not?”

“I am not fit to think of any woman. When I am—well—if I ever am—you can do as you think best. But you mustn’t be bound.”

She sat silent, looking into the fire.

“You know that I’m right, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, I do, Evans. I thought of it, too, last night. And it seems like this to me. If we can just be friends—without bothering with—anything else—it will be easier, won’t it?”

“I can’t tell you how gladly I’d bother, as you call it. But it wouldn’t be fair. You are young, and you have a right to happiness. I’d be a shadow on your—future——”

“Please don’t——”

He dropped on the rug at her feet. “Well, we’ll leave it at that. We’re friends, forever,” he reached up and took her hands in his, “forever?”“Always, Evans——”

“For better, for worse—for richer, for poorer?”

“Of course——”

They stared into the fire, and then he said softly, “Well, that’s enough for me, my dear, that’s enough for me——” and after a while he began to speak in broken sentences. “‘Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest.... After so many hours of toil and quest.... A famished pilgrim....’ That’s Keats, my dear. Jane, do you know that you are food and drink?”

“Am I?” unsteadily.

“Yes, dear little thing, if I had you always by my fire I could fight the world.”

When Jane and Baldy reached home that night, Baldy stamped up and down the house, saying things about Muriel Follette. “A girl like that to criticise.”

“She danced well,” said Jane, who had taken off the silver wreath, and had kicked off the silver slippers, and was curled up in a big chair as comfortable as a white cat.

“What right had she to say things?”

“People are saying them.”

“Did she have to repeat them?”

“Darling Baldy, she didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“How you felt about it.”

He stopped and stood in front of her. “How do you know what I feel?”“Oh, well, you seem to have made yourself Miss Towne’s champion.”

“I’ve done nothing of the kind, Jane. But I have a human interest in a fellow creature.”

“Well,” said Jane, “I have a human interest, too.”

“Aren’t you ever serious, Janey?”

“It’s better to laugh than to cry.” There was a little catch in her voice.

Baldy wound the clock, and she watched him.

“What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

She yawned. “I’m going to bed.”

The telephone rang, and Baldy was off like a shot. Jane uncurled herself from her chair and lent a listening ear. It was a moment of exciting interest. Edith Towne was at the other end of the wire!

Jane knew it by Baldy’s singing voice. He didn’t talk like that to commonplace folk who called him up. She was devoured with curiosity.

He came in, at last, literally walking on air. And just as Jane had felt that his voice sang, so she felt now that his feet danced.

“Janey, it was Edith Towne.”

“What did she say?”

“Just saw my advertisement. Paper delayed——”

“Where is she?”“Beyond Alexandria. But we’re not to give it away.”

“Not even to Mr. Towne?”

“No. She’s asked me to bring her bag, and some other things.”

He threw himself into a chair opposite Jane, one leg over the arm of it. He was a careless and picturesque figure. Even Jane was aware of his youth and good looks.

Edith had, as it seemed, asked him to have Towne send the ring back to Delafield—to have her wedding presents sent back, to have a bag packed with her belongings.

“I am going to take it to her on my car——”

“And you a perfect stranger. I think it’s utterly mad, Baldy.”

“Why mad? And she doesn’t feel that I’m a perfect stranger.”

“Oh!”

“And it is because I am a perfectly disinterested person.”

“You’re not disinterested.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, you know, Baldy. You’re terribly smitten.”

For a moment his eyes blazed, then he swaggered. “If I am, what then? I’d rather worship a woman like that for the rest of my life than marry anybody I’ve ever seen——”“You don’t know a thing about her except that she has lovely eyes.”

She had risen, and as she stood in front of him there was again that effect of two young cockerels on the edge of an encounter. Then they were saved by their sense of humor. “Oh, go to bed,” young Baldwin told her; “you’re jealous, Janey.”

She started up the stairs but before she had reached the landing he called after her. “Jane, what have you on hand for to-morrow?”

She leaned over the rail and looked down at him. “Friday? Feed the chickens. Feed the cats. Help Sophy clean the silver. Drink tea at four with Mrs. Allison, and three other young things of eighty.”

“Well, look here. I don’t want to face Towne. He’ll say things about Edith—and insist on her coming back—she says he will, and that’s why she won’t call him up. And you’ve got more diplomacy than I have. You might make it all seem—reasonable. Will you do it, Jane?”

“Do you mean that you want me to call on him at his office?”

“Yes. Go in with me in the morning.”

“Baldy, are you shirking? Or do you really think me as wonderful as your words seem to imply?”

“Oh, if you’re going to put it like that.”

She smiled down at him. “Let’s leave it then that I am—wonderful. But suppose Mr. Towne doesn’t fall for your plan? Perhaps he won’t let her have the bag or a check-book or money or—anything——”

Jane saw then a sudden and passionate change in her brother. “If he doesn’t let her have it, I will. I may be poor but I’ll beg or borrow rather than have her brought back to face those—cats—until she wants to come.”