Of course, there was Mary Louise.

She was lying lazily on the couch by the front window this bright though chilly May day, reading at times a book, and occasionally hopping up to toss a stick of wood on the fire. Glancing through the window, she noticed Gran’pa Jim and Danny Dexter crossing the park toward the house.

It was early spring in Dorfield and although the numerous trees in the park and surrounding country were leafless, the scene was far from unpleasant to the eye of a stranger. Danny Dexter walked briskly—he had to, to keep pace with Mr. Hathaway—and seemed to enjoy the prospect keenly.

Mary Louise glanced at her gown. It seemed dainty and appropriate for a spring morning, but the girl remembered one with prettier ribbons in a drawer upstairs, so she dashed the book down and flew up the stairway.

Meantime Mr. Hathaway and the soldier had reached the house and passed around the brick sidewalk that led to the rear. Danny glanced doubtfully at the brick-paved driveway.

“No horses, I hope?” said he.

“No,” answered his conductor. “I love horses myself, but Mary Louise prefers an automobile; so, as she’s the mistress of the establishment, as you will soon learn, the horses are gone and a shiny little car takes its place in the stable.”

“Employ a chauffeur, then?”

“No; Mary Louise loves to drive the thing herself, and if anything goes wrong—something’s always going wrong with an automobile—there’s a garage just back of us to fix it up again.”

Danny sighed.

“I can run the blamed things,” he remarked, “and I know how to keep them loaded with oil and water and gasoline—”

“Oh, don’t worry about running it,” exclaimed the other. “Why, she won’t let even me run the thing, so I’ve never learned. As for the chauffeurs, Mary Louise despises them.”

“So do I,” agreed Danny. “Your granddaughter, sir, must be a very sensible girl.”

That won Gran’pa Jim’s heart, but just then Mary Louise herself came tripping through the archway that led from the kitchen to the back porch and the garden. She was most alluringly attired, as if for a spin on a sunlit winter’s morning, and paused abruptly as if surprised.

“Oh, this is the new man, I suppose,” said she, a touch of haughtiness in her voice. “Your name is Dexter, I believe.”

Danny smiled, slyly.

“What makes you believe that?” he inquired, doffing his little military cap.

“I have heard Will White call you Dexter at the grocery store,” she responded promptly.

“Still, I’m not ‘your new man,’” he said, explaining his presence. “At the invitation of Mr. Hathaway I am merely examining his charming grounds.”

“Yes. What do you think, Mary Louise, this hang-around ne’er-do-well insists on seeing the place before he decides whether he’ll work here!”

Mary Louise gave the soldier a curious look. His wound wasn’t so bad—merely a slash across the forehead, which, had it been properly attended to at the time, would scarcely have left a scar. Otherwise his features were manly enough, and might have been approved by girls more particular than Mary Louise. “I don’t blame him for wishing to see his workshop,” she averred with one of her irresistible smiles. “I wouldn’t take a job myself without doing that. Look around, Dexter, and if things are to your mind—we need a man very badly, I assure you. Otherwise, we hope to serve you in some practical way. I’m going over to Laura Hilton’s now, Gran’pa Jim, so if you need me, I’ll be there until lunch time and you can telephone me.”

The old gentleman nodded. Then with Danny, he followed her to the ample stables—almost as ornate and palatial as the house.

“I preferred a five-passenger to a runabout,” explained Mary Louise to Danny, “for now I can pack my girl friends in until the chariot is positively running over—and I like company.”

She applied the starter, and away sped the gamey little machine, bearing the girl who was admitted to be “the prettiest girl in the county.”

Mr. Hathaway showed Danny the stables. In one tower was fitted up a mighty cozy suite of rooms for the whilom “coachman.” There was another suite in the opposite tower. Then they went down into the garden, and as the boy looked around him his face positively gleamed. “It’s magnificent!” he cried, “and just what I always imagined I’d like to fool with. I shall move that row of roses, though, for the place they’re in is entirely too shady. Probably laid out by a competent gardener, but in all these years the climbing vines on his pergola have got the best of his general scheme.”

“You accept the job, then?” asked Gran’pa, relieved.

“Accept? Of course I accept, sir—ever since I saw Mary Louise and her automobile.”

When Mary Louise returned from her drive she found Danny Dexter raking up the scattered leaves in the garden and merrily whistling as he pursued his work. He came to the stable, though, as soon as she drove in, and looked at the machine admiringly. She stood beside him, well pleased, for she liked her automobile to be praised.

“Do you drive?” asked Mary Louise.

“Fairly well, Miss,” he returned; “but I’m not much of a mechanic.”

“That’s my bother,” she insisted, laughing; “but if you like driving I’ll take you on my next trip and the girls will think I’m all swelled up at having a chauffeur. Only—” she paused, looking at him critically, and Danny saw the look and understood it. He blushed slightly, and the girl blushed furiously. She had almost “put her foot in it,” and quite realized the fact.

“The reason I have not kept my face washed,” he said in a quiet voice, “is because our old surgeon at camp told me the wound would heal better if I allowed nature to take her course. It was a bad slash, and while this seemed a curious treatment, the fact has been proved that the wound does better when covered with mud germs than with those from water. The only objection is that it makes me look rather nasty at present, but I made up my mind I could sacrifice anything in the way of looks right now if it would improve my looks in the future.”

“Who was the surgeon?” asked Mary Louise.

“Oh, a crazy old Frenchman who had helped many of our boys and so won their confidence.”

“I don’t believe in his theory,” declared the girl, after another steady look at the cut. “Seems to me that broad gap will always remain.”

“Had you seen it at first,” he said, “you would now realize that it has narrowed more than one-half, and is a healthy wound that is bound to heal naturally. However, this fact assures me I may now wash up and let the thing take care of itself. With my mud face there no object in trying to keep the rest of me clean, so I’ve degenerated into a regular tramp.”

“I suppose you’ve no clothes other than your uniform?” she said thoughtfully. “Do you apply treatment of any kind to your wound?”

“Nothing at all—Nature is the only remedy. And as for clothes, I haven’t the faintest idea what became of my old ‘cits.’ I was told to ship them home, but can’t remember whether I did so or not.”

Mary Louise was dusting the car with a big square of cheesecloth. Danny helped her.

“I wish,” said the girl, “you’d go down to Donovans’ and pick out two suits of clothes—one for working in.” Her voice trembled a little. She did not know how this queer fellow would regard such a suggestion. “I’ll telephone Donovan right away to charge the clothes to Gran’pa Jim’s account,” she continued.

Dexter was silent for awhile, plying his cheesecloth thoughtfully. Then he said:

“In the days of the horse and coachman, did you clothe your men in uniform?”

“Y-e-s, a sort of uniform. When mama was with us she loved to see brightness, coupled with dignity. The Harrington uniform consists of wistaria broadcloth, with a bit of gold braid. But it’s not so gorgeous as it sounds.”

“Suits me, all right,” returned Danny, carelessly. “Would you mind my getting a Hathaway uniform instead of the other clothes?”

Mary Louise was astonished.

“No, indeed,” was her answer. “The uniform will have to be made for you by Jed Southwick, who keeps the materials. But I’m curious to know, Dexter, why you prefer a badge of servitude to a respectable suit of clothes. Do you mind telling me?”

After a little hesitation the soldier answered:

“That’s just it, Miss Hathaway—”

“My name is Burrows—Mary Louise Burrows. Mr. Hathaway is my grandfather.”

“Thank you. Well, it’s the badge of servitude I’m after and that’s why. My home’s a good way from here, Miss Burrows, and it isn’t likely any of my old friends will wander this way, Dorfield being a half-hidden if attractive old city, more dead than alive. But they might come and—just now—I don’t care to meet them and have to explain why I didn’t do more toward winning the war. Every blamed fellow who set foot in France, from private to general, won the war, except me, and that’s rather embarrassing, you’ll admit.”

Mary Louise smiled mischievously, remembering the “medal for distinguished service” even now reposing in Danny Dexter’s pocket-book. But she only said:

“Go to see Jed Southwick at once—the sooner the better—for he’s a good tailor and good tailors are always slow. And order two suits, for something might happen to one of them.”

The boy shook his head.

“I may not stay long enough to wear out two uniforms, Miss Burrows, and a good tailor is expensive, so they’ll cost a lot.”

“We always pay for our men’s uniforms,” protested the girl. “And—how much wages—salary—money—do you get here?”

“Why, I never thought to inquire.”

Mary Louise hung her duster over a rail.

“Gran’pa Jim is always just, and even liberal, so don’t worry,” she said. “Wash your face and then go to town and order your two uniforms. I won’t use you as my chauffeur until you’re all togged out. The girls will admire you more, then, and I’m anxious you should make a hit with them.”