The soldier at the telegraph office on Governor's Island has a busy time of it—especially since the outbreak of war. Cablegrams are nothing uncommon to him—he is prepared for anything. But that did not prevent his rising from his place in a burst of excitement one cold morning toward the end of January, with a yellow paper in his hand.

"What do you think?" he demanded of the man who had just come in to relieve him. "Listen to this: 'To Major James Gordon: Exchanged; all well; signed, Leslie.'"

"What? Bob Gordon?" exclaimed the other, somewhat disrespectfully but with great heartiness. "Say, isn't that fine? You'd better tell the Major in double-quick."

The outgoing operator took his advice and sat down before the telephone. In a moment he had Major Gordon on the wire. "Cablegram, sir. Shall I proceed?"

"Yes—yes—go ahead." Major Gordon's voice was not very steady. The soldier promptly gave the message, in the cheerful tone of a good-hearted fellow who knew he was communicating the best of news. He and his mate had seen Bob on furlough and graduation leave—he seemed still more a West Point cadet than an officer. They had a very friendly feeling for him.

"Thanks!" came Major Gordon's voice as he hung up, and the word sounded as though he meant it.

"Must have been in a bad way if the Germans let him go," commented the relief, sitting down to work.

"He'll get back to the fight again, though—mark my words," was the other man's thoughtful prophecy.

Major Gordon had just come home from a long afternoon's inspection of Q. M. stores when the telephone rang. He had looked and felt both tired and sad but in two minutes all was changed. When he turned away after taking that short message his eyes had regained their old brightness, his lips parted in a smile as merry as Bob's own, the little stoop to his shoulders straightened, as with a quick, eager stride he reached the foot of the stairs and shouted for the whole house to hear, "Sally! Lucy! Bob's exchanged!"

In an hour the whole post knew of it, and half the garrison was at the Gordons' door with joyful greetings. But for a little while Lucy could not go down to welcome them, and Marian took her place when Julia and Anne came to rejoice with her over the long awaited message. Lucy had not cried in many days, and her courage had stood by her until Marian marveled at her calm cheerfulness, but now she could be brave no longer. She sank down among the pillows of her little sofa and did not try to restrain the tears of joy and gratitude that poured down her cheeks. It seemed too good to be true—beyond belief—and more than once in that brief half hour Lucy raised her head and looked with tear-wet eyes from the window at the familiar landmarks of the post, to reassure herself that she was not in a happy dream. "Bob's safe—he's out of prison," she said over and over, to hear how the words sounded, and what finally led her to dry her eyes and leave her refuge on the sofa was the eager desire to show Marian the gratitude she could not yet give Mr. Leslie for his generous devotion.

Next to her longing to hear from Bob by his own hand, Lucy wished to see her friend Captain Jourdin and tell him of Bob's freedom. She had seen real sympathy and interest in the Frenchman's bright, dark eyes, and she thought he might be able to tell her more about Bob's release than they had guessed from the few words of Mr. Leslie's cable. Dispatches from Washington, following shortly after, told no more than the bare fact of the exchange, and it seemed unlikely that they could learn anything else for several days.

"It all depends on their reason for letting him go," said Captain Brent at the Gordons' that night. "They were either very anxious to get an aviator of their own back again—or else he was released for some other reason." Captain Brent evaded the probable "other reason," as Mr. Leslie had done in Lucy's hearing. He guessed, as Major Gordon did, that Bob was either ill or wounded, but Major Gordon felt confident, from the "all well" of Mr. Leslie's message, that there was no ground for heavy anxiety in his behalf.

"But do you think he'll go back to fight? How I wish we could see him and find out everything!" cried Lucy, with longing in her eyes.

"You may be sure he'll go back as soon as possible," declared Captain Brent. "But I think they might give him a month's leave to come home—they probably will."

"Oh, don't you suppose Captain Jourdin would come to see us if you asked him?" Lucy begged. "You see he's an aviator and so is Bob and I know he's interested. I want so much to talk to him again. He'd come if you asked him, wouldn't he, Captain Brent?"

"Why, perhaps he would, Lucy. You see he's awfully busy, and besides that he hates going about, because every one wants to make a hero of him, and he doesn't feel like one. But I think he'll come if your mother asks me to bring him. I don't know much about how exchanges are being managed in this war myself. He might tell us something."

As a result of this talk Captain Jourdin did come to the Gordons' one evening soon after, and though he could only guess at the circumstances of Bob's release he told Lucy one bit of welcome news about her brother.

"The dispatches say that the American Flying Squadron released Von Arnheim for Lieutenant Gordon. The squadron must think highly of your son's ability, Madame," he said to Mrs. Gordon, with a light in his brown eyes, "for they have given up a famous man to secure his freedom. I met Von Arnheim once—over Rheims. I thought he had me for a while. I still have a bullet he gave me somewhere in my shoulder-bone."

"How did you get away?" asked Lucy, breathlessly, forgetting Captain Brent's caution not to ask the pilot about his exploits.

"Oh, I flew away," said Captain Jourdin, laughing. "I just turned tail and, as they say here, 'beat it.'"

"Do you think Bob will go back to the war?" asked Marian, shyly.

"Why not, Miss? Of course he will—though perhaps he may need rest for a time," Captain Jourdin added, with a flicker of meaning in his eyes. "Perhaps they will give him a furlough at home. In that case we can fly together here. I shall meet him with much pleasure."

He rose a moment later to take leave, and Captain Brent, lingering a few moments after him, said, "Do you know what he's hoping for? He's no end cheerful lately. Some doctor in New York is doing wonders for his ankle. He even promises Jourdin that he can get back into the service. The French surgeons will give him every chance to pass."

"Well, I should think so!" cried Lucy with enthusiasm. "Wouldn't that be great? I suppose he'll do all those wonderful feats over again. It must be fun thinking about the great things you've done, even if you don't want to talk them over."

"You bet it must be!" said Captain Brent, smiling. "You'll see Bob wearing no end of medals and crosses yet. He's got the true aviator's spirit. I must get back to my quarters and go to bed," he added, as Lucy gave him a delighted smile at this praise of her brother. "We are out on parade to-morrow. Every airplane that can wriggle its propeller is to fly, so I'll have to be on the field early."

No part of the post's war activity was so absorbing to Marian as the aviation school. At Captain Brent's words her eyes brightened with eager interest, as she inquired of him the hours for which the trial flights were scheduled.

"We'll go, Lucy," she said, and Lucy laughed agreement.

"Don't leave any machines around loose, Captain Brent," she cautioned, "or you'll find Marian curled up in the observer's seat in disguise. If Bob comes home I know she means to persuade him somehow to take her up."

Marian was still rather timid about sudden dangers or emergencies, but the smooth, swift flight of an airplane seemed utterly delightful to her, and as far back as September, in the midst of her shy reserve, she had understood Bob's longing for a place in this splendid new arm of the service.

She and Lucy were early among the crowd that thronged the borders of the aviation field on the following afternoon, and as one machine after the other was rolled out and, gliding down the field on its little wheels, rose toward the clear sunny sky, Marian watched them with sparkling eyes. Captain Jourdin was in one of them, and Lucy picked his machine out at every swerve and loop, by the swift, easy evolutions he performed, so far above their heads that sometimes airplane and pilot looked a gyrating speck among the clouds.

"Marian, I think my neck will break in a minute!" she exclaimed at last, recalling her thoughts from visions of Bob's future as Captain Brent had so generously predicted it, while she closed her eyes for a second against the blue, dazzling heavens, across which the airplanes swooped and darted. "There's Julia," she said a moment later. "I'm going over to speak to her."

Lucy walked back from the field a little to join her friend. Other inspections were in progress on the parade, where a battalion of infantry was marching in review. Over the music of the band as it played one of Harry Lauder's stirring airs that made the soldiers' feet move faster, Lucy said to Julia:

"They're fine, aren't they? But don't you still miss the old Twenty-Eighth? It doesn't seem as though any troops look as they did."

The music stopped, and Julia answered, looking at the little reviewing party advancing toward the companies, "I think one reason all the men here have done so well is because the old regiment gave them such a splendid example. They were first in the trenches—think what that means."

"Bob said Mr. Harding was so proud," said Lucy, softly. "Oh, I wish we could hear some thing about him! When I think of the night he said good-bye so cheerfully at the dock, I can't realize that he may never come back. I feel ashamed to have been thinking all the time of Bob."

"Goodness, you needn't," said Julia, giving Lucy's arm a friendly squeeze. "But after Bob's wonderful good fortune I can't help feeling more hopeful about other people. It seems as if there were a big chance for everybody."

"You and Marian are a nice little pair of optimists," remarked Lucy, musingly. "Still, I sort of think you're right."

"Let's get Marian and go home," Julia suggested, digging her cold hands into her pockets. "The flights are almost over."

Lucy reËntered the house with red cheeks and out of breath, having run most of the way home across the snow.

"Isn't it cold?" said Marian, shivering. "Still, I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

Lucy did not answer, for her eyes were fixed on a postal which the mailman had dropped, as he always did whatever he brought, on the post at the foot of the stairs. It was addressed to her, but—and this made Lucy stare at it with bated breath—it was addressed in her own writing. Incredulous, she pulled off her glove and picked it up. The writing on the other side was strange—far neater and smaller than Dick Harding's, but at the bottom was the familiar R. H.

"Marian!" she burst out, in a rush of bewildered joy, "it's from him! Mr. Harding! Oh, I can't wait!"

She dropped down on the lowest step of the stairs and Marian collapsed into an eager heap beside her, as she bent over the card and read:

"Dear Captain Lucy: Are you surprised, or did the dispatches saying I'm not 'missing' any longer get ahead of this? I cabled my family in the Islands to-day, and in my old coat I found this card and remembered my promise. I am pretty well knocked up still, but nothing to worry over. I was picked up wounded after the rumpus, by some women, and taken to a French farmhouse. Nobody knew where I was, until I got better and told the good people who took care of me to send word to our lines. Before that happened the country around was heavily bombarded, and no one dared stir from the house that sheltered me. I am in a big hospital now, being fed and petted like a pussy-cat. My nurse says there's no more room to write, so good-bye. Best wishes for Bob's luck in the Flying Corps. R. H."

"Oh, Lucy, how wonderful!" cried Marian, her blue eyes shining, and her cheeks pink with excitement and delight. "To think he should have remembered you right off, and let you know he was safe!"

Lucy's heart was beating joyfully and hard, and for a moment she could scarcely speak, but when she did it was to say with sober earnestness:

"If I ever get down-hearted again, Marian, just remind me of this. I never thought I'd see or hear from him again!"

Pride in her old friend's constancy was not the greatest part of her happiness just then, but it did have a share in it when Major Gordon came in a few hours later with official confirmation of Mr. Harding's safety.

"News doesn't get from Washington very fast, Cousin James," said Marian, as the family received Major Gordon's announcement with cheerful calm. "Lucy has heard already from the front."

After those endless days which the Gordons would never forget, when they waited hour after hour and day after day, for the news that never came, it seemed all at once as though good things were coming, almost before they were expected. The house was a different place in this last week, and more than once Lucy saw the old, bright smile linger on her mother's face.

"Isn't it lots nicer since Bob made the Germans let him go?" William asked his sister one day after a moment's thoughtful silence.

"Rather," was Lucy's short answer, but it seemed as though she said much more than that.

At last Bob's letter came, and with the reading of it, some at least of the darkness that had encircled him was cleared away. He could not tell all his adventures of the past two months, but through the lines the quick, sympathetic hearts of those at home guessed, as he had known they would, of the loneliness and misery that had so nearly overcome his brave spirit.

"You never could guess what one letter would have meant to me," he said, when his cautious reserve, lest they should think him almost done for, was for the moment forgotten. "If ever I have prisoners to guard—Boches, or I don't care whom—I'll give them their letters from home. It doesn't help win the war to keep them back, and it gives the prisoner a bitter feeling toward his captors that he'll never forget as long as he lives.

"But I'm all right now," he wrote cheerfully. "Cousin Henry and I are in a snug little French village near the coast, where a lot of convalescent officers and men are put up for a month or so. It's just perfect to me—the freedom and the feeling of being among friends again. Having plenty to eat is pretty comfortable, too. Once or twice I've caught Cousin Henry looking curiously at me, as though he thought I was never going to stop. I've tried to thank him for getting me out, and I've written the Spanish Ambassador at Berlin (by way of Spain), but there's no use trying to tell them all I feel. You have to be in prison to know how it feels to get out. I only hope that Sergeant Cameron has got at least one of the packages I've sent him through Switzerland. Just let's pray our army gets over here quickly by the million, and the beastly war comes to an end before 1918 is over.

"They say I can have leave to go home, but if I keep on getting well here at this rate, honestly, I don't see how I can ask it. That's for the doctor to decide anyway, so I won't bother. But when you're on this side and see all that's waiting to be done! I don't wonder Father feels the way he does about coming over, but if there is nobody behind us at home to send on the men and the supplies, where will we be?

"My captain sent me congratulations on my exchange. They had tried to negotiate one before, to see if they could find out what had become of us—especially Benton. But it fell through, and they couldn't discover anything. It was only the fever that let me out. The German they exchanged me for is a first rate pilot. I've seen him fly, and it makes me wild to think of his getting back to work before I can do my bit again. It's that makes a leave seem impossible, if I can get well here. If everybody sticks it out and does what he can to help win, before very long we'll all be home for good.

"Cousin Henry sails next week, so pretty soon you'll know all he has to tell about me. I'll never forget how good it looked to see his face when that train drew up beside the Swiss frontier. At first he looked worried, but not long, for I got well so fast. He thinks I'm all right now.

"It's only the first lap of the race that's over, but I came out of it with such luck, I'm not afraid to face the next."

Lucy and Marian had taken the letter up-stairs to read a second time, and when it was finished Marian looked at her cousin anxiously, for Lucy had fallen into a revery, and sat with sober, thoughtful eyes, and close-set lips. Marian thought she knew what the doubt of Bob's home-coming must mean to her.

"But, Lucy, he seems so well and happy," she said at last, uncertainly. "He wants so awfully to get back and fly."

Lucy raised her eyes and smiled, her chin cupped in her hand.

"I'm not worrying about him, Marian. It's just that there's a lot to think about."

In the long, hard days of Bob's imprisonment Lucy had found the courage to endure which Bob himself had sought so often. And once found she meant to cling to it. "Only the first lap of the race," Bob had said, but to Lucy it seemed as though the race were half won, for never, never, she told herself, would she again give way to hopeless fears—no matter what dark days were ahead— since out of the deadly danger of battle-field and prison camp Bob had once come safely back.