Trees that lined the streets of Hillsdale were touched with tints of red and gold, frescoed by the magic brush of approaching winter.

In the Eagle office sat the Colonel and Mr. Strong, looking thoughtfully into their laps. Tears glistened on their cheeks; for several minutes neither of them had spoken. Held in the editor's fingers was an open letter just received, while in the Colonel's inert hand lay a clipping from the Paris Figaro. The Colonel now glanced up slowly but, seeing Mr. Strong's face, sharply exclaimed:

"I wish you'd stop your infernal weeping, Amos!"

"I wish you'd stop your own!" the editor replied with equal asperity; then both of them began to laugh.

"I confess, Amos, that it's hard to keep back tears. Why, by gad, sir, he has done as much as we ever did in the old fracas over here!—more, sir! And Marian—who the devil is that fellow she eulogizes to the sky? Here," he handed over the clipping, "read this again! It's a pity it isn't printed in English!"

"Let me first read what Marian says, Roger; then we'll take the clipping."

Three times within the last half hour these old gentlemen had followed exactly this same routine: first taking Marian's letter, written from Paris where she had been sent for a well-earned rest, and then laboriously translating the newspaper item she inclosed to them.

Mr. Strong now adjusted his glasses and began the letter a fourth time, while the Colonel leaned forward, hanging upon each word. It recited first what Tim Doreen had magnanimously told about Jeb, losing none of that Irishman's vividness; then it went on at great length to describe a certain Dr. Georges Bonsecours. Page after page she wrote of him; citing innumerable instances of his valor, both while under gruelling fire out on the field and endless hours of indefatigable work beneath the dug-out shelters. Having fully covered his present, she dashed into his past with a reckless disregard of ink and paper, and filled many other pages. Only once did the Colonel interrupt, and then to remark drily:

"Seems like a pretty thorough biographical sketch, Amos."

He had made this same observation, just at this same place, upon each of the previous readings; and the editor had hesitated, cleared his throat—as he now did—before continuing with the only mention Marian had written of this great surgeon's future, which was, briefly:

"When the war is over, he is coming out to Hillsdale."

For a fourth time now Mr. Strong's eyes grew moist, as he asked:

"What do you suppose he wants to come out here to Hillsdale for?"

The Colonel had not previously deigned to answer this; he had merely subsided into silence and let a lump rise in his throat in sympathy with the editor. This time, however, he turned squarely to his friend and asked:

"Amos, are you trying to be a pig-headed old fool, or do you really want the truth!"

Mr. Strong looked at him rather humorously.

"I think I'll dodge the truth, at any rate, Roger—until this doctor arrives. How do you think Miss Sallie and Miss Veemie will take it?"

"Take it? Why, they'll take it just as we do—with joyful hearts, because their boy and our girl have achieved great things! I never wanted her to marry Jeb, anyhow!" And to Mr. Strong's smile of surprise, he thundered: "By cracky, I tell you I didn't, Roger! Jeb was too immature for her—he had yet to prove himself!"

"He's proved himself now," the editor emphatically replied.

"He has, indeed," the Colonel's voice sank to tenderness. "He has, indeed," he added to himself, as though he could not quite understand it. "But, Amos, she needs a man of broader calibre—you know she does! They weren't ever seriously in love with each other, anyhow!—don't interrupt me again!—I tell you they weren't! Just because their dear mothers expressed a wish for them to marry, you, and those two little old maids out there, got to sentimentalizing over it until the poor children were hypnotized. Why, confound it, I call them lucky to have escaped! I wonder, by the way," he added thoughtfully, "if this Doctor What's-his-name talks English, or the jargon in which that clipping is printed! He'll have a stupid time here in Hillsdale, that's all I've got to say."

Mr. Strong laughed outright.

"You're mighty cock-sure about him and Marian!"

"Because I don't admit being a pig-headed old fool," the Colonel grinned. "If ever invisible words were written between lines of a letter, they're there in your hand! He's asked her, to a certainty; and she has either said yes, or intends to! Wait for the next mail! The little vixen is just preparing us—see if I ain't right! Now, read the other, Amos," he added gently.

The clipping was a long one, being a list of men in the American Army who had been recommended for the Croix de Guerre, and, among the many, he read:

"'Soldier Jebediah Tumpson, for going through a heavy barrage to search for a wounded platoon leader, and after two hours under constant fire bringing him back in safety.'"

"What's that thing they want to give him?" the Colonel asked, after they had been silent with their own thoughts for several moments. There was a huskiness in his voice that suggested another approach of tears.

"Croix de Guerre," Mr. Strong coughed and answered. "It means the Cross of War."

"Then why the devil didn't you say Cross of War, Amos," he demanded, trying valiantly to hide his emotion. "What's the sense of using words that sound like a dog fight!—g-r-r-r-r!—Croix de G-r-r-r-r, indeed!—when you know how to say it in decent American English!"

The editor smiled understandingly, and again they relapsed into meditation; their hearts beating happily, the Colonel's stout boot tapping contentedly upon the oaken floor.

"Amos," he shouted, springing at last to his feet, "there's no damned German army ever recruited can stand before our boys when we get good and mad!"

Mr. Strong arose and closed his roll-top desk with a bang. Laying a hand on his friend's shoulder, he said:

"You're damn right! Now get your overcoat——"

"Pouf! I don't need any overcoat!" the Colonel cried disdainfully, feeling himself warmed by the old spirit of 1861, which had been fanned into a comforting glow by the new spirit of 1917.

"Yes, you do, Roger, for I heard you coughing only yesterday!—and you remember what I promised Marian!"

"I will, if you put on your muffler, Amos!"

"Oh, very well. But what I started to say is, that—while I don't make a practice of it—I think we're entitled to go to the hotel for a small—er-a! Then we'll walk out Main street, and take this good news to the little aunts!"

"And some flowers, Amos! Tulips, if we can find any—a big bunch of 'em!"

THE END