Down by the salt sea Marvin was resuming his drives. He talked to Gratia about the war, and found her agreeing with him. He expressed his conviction that America ought to go in. Though Gratia knew that her father thought otherwise, she told him he was right.

All through the spring of 1916 he waited in vain for signs that Congress would declare war. Then in June came the news that the British commander-in-chief had been killed. Marvin’s indignation, which had been growing steadily for a year, reached white heat. It would take thousands of men to make good the loss of one Kitchener, but he determined to be one of them. He would get ready to be sent when the inevitable declaration came.

He ran up to Eglantine that afternoon—to Eglantine all rosy in its mass of flowers. He took her off alone this time. They motored up the hill and then made their way on foot to a hollow beneath a spreading thorn tree. They sat down, and he took her hand. She made no objection, but lifted his left hand and studied it.

“Marvin, you have the quickest, finest left hand that ever was.”

“Gratia, I’m going to enlist.”

She tightened her clasp on both hands. “You are doing right. I don’t care what my father says about this war. You are doing right, and I’m proud of you.”

“Dear, I shall not see you again till the war is over. May I write?”

“I shall be heartbroken if you don’t.”

“And will you marry me when I come back?”

“How can I tell? Some day I may have a great responsibility. Father’s business must go on after he is gone, and I want to keep it together. Do you love me very much?”

“Gratia, I worship you. I’ve been too presuming with other girls. I think a man ought to look up to the woman he marries.”

She gently drew both hands away.

“We’re not a very loving couple, are we? But I’m only nineteen. By the time you get back I may feel very differently. Please ask me then.”