They put on their raincoats, and with umbrellas started out into the soggy, showery morning, for the drizzle had kept up nearly all the night before. “Even if we still had your old rattle-trap automobile which we exchanged for mine,” observed Mary Louise, “we’d have had hard work to make it go this morning.”

“It’s a shame,” said the old Colonel, as they started along the path, “to bring our soldiers home on such a rainy day. It ought to be a bright and sunny day of welcome.” “Still it’s their home, and they’ll be glad to get here under any circumstances,” asserted Mary Louise. “I think it’s raining harder than ever, Grandpa Jim.”

They were now where they could see the station, which seemed dull and deserted and the few people that were there seemed to be coming toward them. “I don’t believe the boys are coming to-day,” said the Colonel, “don’t you remember the paper said to-day or to-morrow?” “True,” added one of a group which had paused before them and knew the Colonel well, as all the earlier settlers did; “we’ll do better to get home where it is warm than hanging around here this miserable day. The weather would discourage any railroad train.” “That suits me,” said Mary Louise, and they started for home, chatting about the Dorfield men and discussing their usefulness.

There were no boys in “Grandpa Jim’s” family. He had had only one daughter who grew to delightful womanhood, married Judge Burrows, a prosperous lawyer, who died a few years later, leaving his baby girl—Mary Louise—to the care of his invalid wife and the staunch old grandfather.

Combining the two estates (the handsome old home belonged to the Hathaways), made a very pretty property for the young girl to inherit, and Mary Louise Burrows was known as the heiress of it all.

Colonel Hathaway naturally idolized this granddaughter, and it was from her baby lips that he first acquired the title of “Grandpa Jim,” which was cordially and affectionately followed by his many friends in the pretty but modest little city, where he was regarded as one of the two or three “leading citizens.”

Grandpa Jim’s wealth was sufficient for him to retire from any active business, so he passed his time in cheerful gossip with the other inhabitants and made many “travel trips” with Mary Louise, both in order to educate the young girl and relieve his own ennui.

The Great War had kept him at home during recent years, but he had read daily reports of its progress and talked them over with those of his acquaintances who were most interested in the fray.

He was also tremendously interested in the early education and career of his fascinating granddaughter, the more so after the child’s mother contracted a serious disease which carried her away from them forever.

So here were these two, a big old gentleman and a small young girl, located in one of the most prominent and attractive houses in Dorfield. Here they were, beloved by many but envied by none so far as they knew.

Mary Louise had many girl friends. Indeed, you might say every girl in the town claimed her friendship, for she was generous, bright, initiative and had a glad and loving word for every girl she met. Therefore it is no wonder that a lack of boys in the Hathaway family should create an added interest in the one girl of the establishment among the soldiers now returning from their victorious campaign. But the young girl did not know that.

On her side, Mary Louise had no cousins or other relatives, with whom she might intimately hobnob; Grandpa Jim’s male relatives were so remotely connected to him by blood that he could not name you one of them. But there were none in Dorfield—nor out of it—whose hearts were more overflowing with patriotic enthusiasm than this fine old war veteran and his charming granddaughter as they went down the hill the next morning toward the depot. As they passed along, the electric lamps in front of the station were still striving to penetrate the gray gloom of foggy moisture.

Grandpa Jim said in his cheery voice: “It’s another one of those wholly tantalizing mornings, Mary Louise, but that won’t dampen the joy of our soldiers at getting home again.”

“To be sure,” she replied, “so let us hope the trains will make up for lost time. Good gracious, Grandpa Jim,” pausing abruptly to peer ahead, “they’re in now!” for her eyes were sharper than those of the Colonel.

She ran on a few steps in excitement, but then, remembering that in the semi-darkness she was her “Grandpa Jim’s cane,” she abated her pace and went back to take his arm.

“It won’t matter, child,” he said, laughing lightly; “we’re not specially interested in those aboard, and they’ve all got to march over to their old cantonment before they are disbanded. But we have the right to shake hands with them.”

“We can say: ‘Hello, Bill!’ anyhow, if we see anyone we used to know,” said Mary Louise, and even the old Colonel was interested enough to hurry forward to join the throng of soldiers who had traveled all the way to France to prove that they were real warriors.

Mary Louise had many humble acquaintances among the throng which moved in well drilled ranks from the depot to the cantonment—a matter of half a mile or so, and she nodded briskly here and there at “the boys,” who flushed and threw out their chests proudly as they formed ranks. A few of the young men were “calling acquaintances,” and these were especially honored by the beautiful girl’s attention.

“Take it easy, my dear,” puffed Grandpa Jim, as he clung to the arm of Mary Louise on the slippery pathway. “They’re marching faster than we can walk, and they’re still covered with the dust and grime of travel. Look down there at the cantonment! The places where they used to pitch their tents are nothing but mud holes. I doubt if our soldiers under present circumstances are as glad to see us as we are to see them. Let’s go home.”

Mary Louise in her heart knew that he was right, but her tone was somewhat peevish when she answered:

“If everyone felt as we do, it would be a nice reception for our soldier boys, wouldn’t it—with just ‘poodle-ground’ to greet them? The earnest shouts of those who are here must carry joy to the hearts of those who have braved many a storm to drive back the Germans, and we must prove we’re as loyal and brave as our men.” Thoroughly in earnest, the beautiful girl continued: “For my part, I’m really enjoying it all, Gran’pa Jim, and—Hello, Ned Clary!” waving her handkerchief and nodding smilingly as they reached the beginning of the cantonment, which was now a very busy place.

The girl gazed with interest upon the mud-stained uniforms. But the soldiers themselves received the most of her attention. Their faces were most attractive to her, and she scanned them as closely as if really looking for some relative. Those who worked, worked quietly and doggedly, having performed such duties many times. Others looked on, smoking their cigarettes indifferently. Still others sat upon the stone curbing and waited nonchalantly until something should happen that might prove more interesting.

Mingled with these were all classes of citizens of Dorfield, and suddenly Mary Louise cried out:

“Oh, Laura Hilton! Where on earth did you come from?” as if she had not known that the other girl had followed or preceded her down the hill.

“Me?” answered Laura, as if in amazement; “why, I just came down to see if Cousin Will was in this division. He said in his last letter that he would be home next week; but they may have pushed him on ahead, you know. Cousin Will is a big man—you’ll remember—wherever he happens to be. At war he is a Sergeant—or a Corporal—or some such genius, I’ve heard, yet somehow he doesn’t seem to have his own way quite as much as when at home, clerking in the corner grocery store. He says he had one boss in civilian life; in the army, he has a dozen.”

“Well,” said Mary Louise, taking her arm confidentially, “that was only Cousin Will’s banter, you know. No one ever believed in him and I doubt if he ever believed in himself. I am glad he is coming home with a whole skin anyhow, and I wish all our poor boys were as safe to-day as he is.”

“Well,” responded Laura, “neither you nor I can claim any of the Dorfield boys, and yet it’s some satisfaction to see them coming home from that long journey across the seas and know that they have fought for us and died for us—whenever such foolish sacrifice was required.”

“Oh, Laura!” exclaimed Mary Louise, reprovingly. “Do you think it was foolishness to save all our lives—to make the world safe for democracy?”

“Don’t let us argue concerning politics,” said the other girl with a shy shrug. “I am not much posted on such things, as you very well know.” “You belong to the Liberty Girls, though,” said Mary Louise.

“Oh, as for that,” said Laura, “I will do anything I can for my country and its warriors, and the only reason I am not more interested in the return home of the Dorfield Regiment is that none of my flesh and blood is mixed up in it.”

“Then what are you down here for?” inquired Mary Louise.

“Just to watch these men greet their own friends, who must be supremely proud of their work and anxious to see them safely home. They have had some rather severe scrapping over there, I believe, and according to all reports there has not been a shirker or a coward in the whole lot of them. No wonder everybody has turned out to give them an enthusiastic reception! Just look at the number of mothers and fathers and whole families here to welcome their own back! It’s hard to tell who is enjoying it most—the soldier boys who have come back, or their families who have awaited them so long. But why are you here, Mary Louise?”

“Why, for almost the same reason. There has been a hint that some soldiers from other parts of the country have been transferred to the Dorfield Regiment, to take the places of those who have fallen in the various battles. Grandpa Jim has an idea that some of these strangers may need work or a home after they are mustered out.”

“How can we tell who are the strangers and who are not?” asked Laura.

“Why—why—by watching them, I suppose,” replied Mary Louise.