Life for Evans Follette after Jane went away became a sort of game in which he played, as he told himself grimly, a Jekyll and Hyde part. Two men warred constantly within him. There was that scarecrow self which nursed mysterious fears, a gaunt gray-haired self, The Man Who Had Come Back From the War. And there was that other, shadowy, elusive, The Boy Who Once Had Been. And it was the Boy who took on gradually shape and substance fighting for place with the dark giant who held desperately to his own.

Yet the Boy had weapons, faith and hope. The little diary became in a sense a sacred book. Within its pages was imprisoned something that beat with frantic wings to be free. Evans, shrinking from the program which he compelled himself to follow, was faced with things like this. “Gee, I wish the days were longer. I’d like to dance through forty-eight hours at a stretch. Jane is getting to be some little dancer. I taught her the new steps to-night. She’s as graceful as a willow wand.”

Well, a man with a limp couldn’t dance. Or could he?A Thomas Jefferson autograph went therefore to pay for twenty dancing lessons. Would the great Democrat turn in his grave? Yet what were ink scratches made by a dead hand as against all the meanings of love and life?

Evans bought a phonograph, and new records. He practised at all hours, to the great edification of old Mary, who washed dishes and scrubbed floors in syncopated ecstasies.

He took Baldy and Edith to tea at the big hotels, and danced with Edith. He apologized, but kept at it. “I’m out of practice.”

Edith was sympathetic and interested. She invited the two boys to her home, where there was a music room with a magical floor. Sometimes the three of them were alone, and sometimes Towne came in and danced too, and Adelaide Laramore and Eloise Harper.

Towne danced extremely well. In spite of his avoirdupois he was light on his feet. He exercised constantly. He felt that if he lost his waist line all would be over. He could not, however, always control his appetite. Hence the sugar in his tea, and other indulgences.

Baldy wrote to Jane of their afternoon frivols.

“You should see us! Eloise Harper dancing with Evans, and old Towne and his Adelaide! And Edith and I! We’re a pretty pair, if I do say it. We miss you, and always wish you were with us. Sometimes it seems almost heartless to do things that you can’t share. But it’s doing a lot for Evans. Queer thing, the poor old chap goes at it as if his life depended upon it.

“We are invited to dine with the Townes on Christmas Eve. Some class, what? By we, I mean myself and the Follettes. Edith and Mrs. Follette see a lot of each other, and Mrs. Follette is tickled pink! You know how she loves that sort of thing—Society with a big S.

“There will be just our crowd and Mrs. Laramore for dinner, and after that a big costume ball.

“I shall go as a page in red. And Evans will be a monk and sing Christmas carols. Edith Towne is crazy about his voice. He sat down at the piano one day in the music room, and she heard him. Jane, his voice is wonderful—it always was, you know, but we haven’t heard it lately. Poor old chap—he seems to be picking up. Edith says it makes her want to cry to see him, but she’s helping all she can.

“Oh, she’s a dear and a darling, Janey. And I don’t know what I am going to do about it. I have nothing to offer her. But at least I can worship ... I shan’t look beyond that....

“And now, little old thing, take care of yourself, and don’t think we’re playing around and forgetting you, for we’re not. Even Merrymaid and the kit-cat look pensive when your name is mentioned. They share the library hearth with Rusty. The old fellow is on his feet now, not much the worse for his accident.

“Love to Judy and Bob, and the kiddies. And a kiss or two for my own Janey.”

Jane, having read the letter, laid it down with a sense of utter forlornness. Evans and Eloise Harper! Towne and his Adelaide! A Christmas costume ball! Evans singing for Edith Towne!

Evans’ own letters told her little. They were dear letters, giving her news of Sherwood, full of kindness and sympathy, full indeed of a certain spiritual strength—that helped her in the heavy days. But he had sketched very lightly his own activities.—He had perhaps hesitated to let her know that he could be happy without her.

But Evans was not happy. He did the things he had mapped out for himself, but he could not do them light-heartedly as the Boy had done. For how could he be light-hearted with Jane away? He had moments of loneliness so intense that they almost submerged him. He came therefore upon one entry in his diary with eagerness.

“Had a day with the Boy Scouts. Hiked up through Montgomery County. Caught some little shiners in the creek and cooked them. Grapes thick in the Glen. The boys were like small Bacchuses, and draped themselves in fruit and leaves. They are fine fellows. I have no patience with people who look upon boys as nothing but small animals. Why their dreams! And shy about them! Now and then they open their hearts to me—and I can see the fineness that’s under the outer crust. They lie under the trees with me, and we talk as we follow the road.”

Boys——! That was it! He’d get in touch with them again. And he did. There were two, Sandy Stoddard and Arthur Lane, who came over and sat by the library fire with Rusty and the two cats, and popped corn, and wanted to hear about the war.

At first when they spoke of it, Evans would not talk—but a moment arrived when he found flaming words to show them how he felt about it.

“I know a lot of fellows,” said Sandy Stoddard, “who say that America wouldn’t have gone into it if she’d known a lot of things. And that most of the men who came back feel that they were just—fooled——”

“If they feel that way, they are fools themselves,” said Evans, shortly.

“Well, they’re all throwing bricks at us now,” said Sandy. “France and Great Britain, and the rest of them. When you read the papers you feel as if America was pretty punk——”

“Sandy,” said Evans, slowly, reaching for the right words because this boy must know the truth—“America is never punk. We’re human, like the rest of the world. We’re selfish like everybody else. But we’re kind. And most of us still believe in God. I’ve gone through a lot,” he was flushed with the sense of the intimacy of his confession; “you boys can’t ever know what I’ve gone through unless you go through it some day yourselves. But every night I thank God on my knees that I was a part of a crusade that believed it was fighting for the right. Those of us who went in with that idea came out of it with that idea. That’s all I can say about it—and I’d do it again.”

As he stood there on the hearth-rug, the boys gazed at him with awe in their eyes. They knew patriotic passion when they saw it, and here in this broken man was a dignity which seemed to make him a tower above them. They felt for the moment as if his head touched the stars.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Evans continued; “war is hell. And most of us found horrors worse than any dreadful dream. But we learned one thing, that death isn’t awful. It is kind and beneficent. And there’s something beyond.”

“Gee,” said Sandy Stoddard, “I’m glad you said that.”

But Arthur Lane did not speak. He saw Evans through a haze of hero-worship. He saw him, too, with a halo of martyrdom. The glass of the photograph on the mantel had been mended. There was the young soldier handsome and brave in his uniform. And here was his ghost—come back to say that it was all—worth while....

Association with these boys cleared up many things for Evans. They had ideals which must not be shattered. Not to their young eagerness must be brought the pessimism of a disordered mind—and tortured soul. They must have the truth. And the truth was this. That men who had laid down their lives to save others had seen an unforgetful vision. He wondered how many of his comrades, even now, in the cynicism of after-war propaganda would sacrifice the memory of that high moment....

Besides the boys, Evans had another friend. He played a whimsical game with the scarecrow. He went often and leaned over the fence that shut in the frozen field. He hunted up new clothes and hung them on the shaking figure—an overcoat and a soft hat. It seemed a charitable thing to clothe him with warmth. In due time someone stole the overcoat, and Evans found the poor thing stripped. It gave him a sense of shock to find two crossed sticks where once had been the semblance of a man. But he tried again. This time with an old bathrobe and a disreputable cap. “It will keep you warm until spring, old chap....”

The scarecrow and his sartorial changes became a matter of much discussion among the negroes. Since Evans’ visits were nocturnal, the whole thing had an effect of mystery until the bathrobe proclaimed its owner. “Mist’ Evans done woh’ dat e’vy day,” old Mary told Mrs. Follette. “Whuffor he dress up dat ol’ sca’crow in de fiel’?”

“What scarecrow?”

Old Mary explained, and that night Mrs. Follette said to her son, “The darkies are getting superstitions. Did you really do it?”

His somber eyes were lighted for a moment. “It’s just a whim of mine, Mumsie. I had a sort of fellow feeling——”“How queer!”

“Not as queer as you might think.” He went back to his book. No one but Jane should know the truth.

And so he played the game. Working in his office, dancing with Edith and Baldy, chumming with the boys, dressing up the scarecrow. It seemed sometimes a desperate game—there were hours in which he wrestled with doubts. Could he ever get back? Could he? There were times when it seemed he could not. There were nights when he did not sleep. Hours that he spent on his knees....

So the December days sped, and it was just a week before Christmas that Evans read the following in his little book. “Dined with the Prestons. Told father’s ham story.—Great hit. Potomac frozen over. Skated in the moonlight with Florence Preston.—Great stunt—home to hot chocolate.”

Once more the Potomac was frozen over. Florence Preston was married. But he mustn’t let the thing pass. The young boy Evans would have tingled with the thought of that frozen river.

It was after dinner, and Evans was in his room. He hunted up Baldy. “Look here, old chap, there’s skating on the river. Can’t we take Sandy and Arthur with us and have an hour or two of it? Your car will do the trick.”

Baldy laid down his book. “I have no philanthropies on a night like this. Moonlight. I’ll take you and the boys and then I’ll go and get Edith Towne.” He was on his feet. “I’ll call her up now——”

The small boys were rapturous and riotous over the plan. When they reached the ice, and Evans’ lame leg threatened to be a hindrance, the youngsters took him between them, and away they sailed in the miraculous world—three musketeers of good fellowship and fun.

Baldy having brought Edith, put on her skates, and they flew away like birds. She was all in warm white wool—with white furs, and Baldy wore a white sweater and cap. The silver of the night seemed to clothe them in shining armor.

Baldy said things to her that made her pulses beat. She found herself a little frightened.

“You’re such a darling poet. But life isn’t in the least what you think it.”

“What do I think it?”

“Oh, all mountains and peaks and moonlight nights.”

“Well, it can be——”

“Dear child, it can’t. I have no illusions.”

“You think you haven’t.”

It was late when at last they took off their skates and Edith invited them all to go home with her. “We’ll have something hot. I’m as hungry as a dozen bears.”

The boys giggled. “So am I,” said Sandy Stoddard. But Arthur said nothing. His eyes were occupied to the exclusion of his tongue. Edith looked to him like some angel straight from heaven. He had never seen anyone so particularly lovely.

So, packed in Baldy’s Ford, they made the journey. The two small boys had an Arabian Nights’ feeling as they were led through the great hall with its balconies, thence to the huge kitchen.

The servants had gone to bed, all except Waldron—who led the way, and offered his services.

“No, we’ll do it ourselves, Waldron,” Miss Towne told him. “Is Uncle Fred in?”

“No, Miss Towne.”

“Well, if he comes, tell him where we are.”

“Very good, Miss Towne,” and Waldron backed out impressively, the round eyes of the little boys upon him.

Edith gave them the freedom of the amazing refrigerator, which was white as milk and as big as a house, and they brought forth with some hesitation viands which seemed as unreal as the rest of it—cold roast chickens with white frills on their legs, a plate of salad with patterns on top of it in red peppers and little green buttons which Evans said were capers—the remains of a glorified sort of Charlotte Russe—a castellated affair with candied fruits.

“Do they eat things like this every day?” Sandy asked Evans, with something like awe, “or am I dreamin’?”Evans nodded. “Some feast, isn’t it, old chap?” He was warmed by the radiance of the freckled boyish face.

Arthur Lane, always less talkative, had little to say. He was steeping himself in atmosphere. He had never been in a house like this. The kitchen with its panelled ceiling, its white enamel, its gleaming nickel, its firm, white painted furniture—its white and brown tiling. It was all as utterly fascinating as the things he read about in the fairy books.

“Now the kitchen,” he said at last to Towne, “what’s it so big for? Ain’t there only three of them in the family?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there are six of us at home, and you could put four of our kitchens into this. And that refrigerator—it’s so big you could live in it. You know, Mr. Follette, it’s bigger than our scout tents.”

“Yes, it is,” Evans smiled at him. “Well, when people have so much money, they think they need things.”

“I’d like it.” The boy was eager. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Gee—well, I am——” and young Arthur went over to thrash it out with Sandy.

Evans, left to himself, wondered. Did he want money? A great fortune? With Jane? The huge silent house with all its servants? Jane, herself, trailing up the stairs in all the dazzling draperies imposed upon her by fashionable modistes? Jane, miles away from him at the end of that massive table in the great dining-room?

Were these his dreams? For Jane?

He knew they were not. When he thought of her, he thought of a little house. Of a living-room where a fire burned bright whose windows looked upon a little garden—crocuses and hyacinths in the spring, roses in June, snow in winter, with all the birds coming up for Jane to feed them. A library with books to the ceiling, and himself reading to Jane. A kitchen, a shining place, with a crisp maid to save Jane from drudgery. Two crisp maids, perhaps, some day, if there were kiddies.

He asked no more than that. Why, it was all the world for a man....