But the United States troops were not in Mexico to make war but to prevent it, while the impending trouble in Europe was so filled with possibilities that it promised already to be the greatest struggle that the world ever had known.

The horror of it was increased by the fact that for a week all Chautauqua had been giving itself over to the peaceful joys of music. For six days Victor Herbert's Orchestra had provided a feast of melody and harmony and rhythm and everybody on the grounds had participated, either as auditor or as performer, in some of the vocal numbers. Mrs. Morton and Mr. Emerson and Roger had sung in the choir and Dorothy had raised her sweet pipe in the Children's Choir. And at the end of the week had come this crashing discord of war.

Yet the routine of a Chautauqua Sunday went on unbroken. The elders went at nine o'clock to the Bible Study class in the Amphitheatre, and at half past nine the younger members of the family dispersed to the various places where the divisions of the graded Sunday School met. Roger and Helen found the high school boys and girls in the Hall of Christ; the Ethels met the children of the seventh grade at the model of Palestine by the lakeside, and Dicky went to the kindergarten just as he had done on weekday mornings, though what he did after he entered the building was far different.

At ten o'clock Sunday School was over and the older children and the grown-ups scattered to the devotional services at the various denominational houses which Helen and the Ethels had noticed on their first day's walk. At eleven all Chautauqua gathered in the Amphitheatre in a union service that recognized no one creed but laid stress on the beauty and harmony common to all beliefs.

The coming week was that of the special celebration of the founding of Chautauqua Institution forty years before, so it was fitting that Bishop Vincent should preach from the platform which owed its existence to the God-given idea of service which he had brought into being. The ideal church and the ideal Christian were his themes.

"Personality is always enlarged and ennobled by having to do with and becoming responsible for some great institution," he said and even the children understood that the Church suggests a pattern for good thoughts and for service to others which uplifts the people who try to shape their own lives by it.

"Isn't he a beautiful old man," whispered Ethel Blue to Ethel Brown. "Do you suppose we'll ever have a chance to speak to him?"

It seemed to Ethel Brown almost an impossibility; yet it happened that very afternoon.

At three o'clock the Junior Congregation met in the Amphitheatre and the Ethels went, although they had sat through the morning service. It was a glad sight—several hundred girls and boys smiling happily and singing joyously and often grown people sat in the upper seats of the auditorium where they would not intrude upon the gathering below but would be able to see and hear the fresh young faces and voices.

It happened that Bishop Vincent, passing by with Miss Kimball, stopped for a few minutes at the head of one of the aisles to listen to the last hymn, and he was still there when the young people poured out upon the upper walk. Miss Kimball recognized the Ethels and called them to her.

"Here are two little acquaintances of mine, Bishop," she said; "I know they want to speak to you and shake hands with you."

Ethel Brown looked frankly into the benign face above her and made a prompt answer to the question, "Is this your first summer at Chautauqua?" But Ethel Blue was overcome with the embarrassment that seemed to be growing upon her lately, and hardly raised her eyes. Yet as Miss Kimball turned to go on and Ethel Brown walked away beside her Ethel Blue found herself saying desperately in a small voice,

"Bishop, would you tell me something? I must—I want to know something."

"Come and sit down here and tell me what it is," answered the kind and genial tones that could make the huge Amphitheatre ring or could comfort a child with equal effect.

Drawing her to a seat a little way down the sloping aisle the Bishop and the young girl sat down.

"Now what is it?" he asked softly.

Again shyness seized Ethel and made her speechless. She looked desperately after Ethel Brown, unconscious that the others were not following. Ethel Blue turned cold at her own audacity; but she had delayed the Bishop in his afternoon walk and she must tell him what was on her mind.

"Do you think," she stammered, "do you think that a coward can ever become brave?"

"I do," answered the Bishop promptly and simply. "A coward is afraid for two reasons; first, he doesn't control his imagination, and his imagination plays him tricks and makes him think that if such or such a thing happens to him he will suffer terribly; and secondly, he doesn't control his will. His will ought to stand up to his imagination and say, 'You may be right and you may be wrong, but even if you're right I can bear whatever comes. Pain may come, but I can bear it. Trouble may come, but I can bear it.' Do you understand?"

Ethel's face was beginning to light up.

"You see," the Bishop went on, "God has given everybody the power to bear suffering and trouble. You may be perfectly sure that if suffering and trouble come to you you will be given strength to meet them. And God has given us something else; He has given us the power to avoid much pain and suffering."

"Oh, how?"

"One way is always to expect joy instead of pain. When you are looking for joy you find joy and when you are looking for pain you find pain. I rather think that you have been looking for pain recently."

Ethel hung her head.

"I was a coward at the fire at our house, and I'm so ashamed it doesn't seem to me I can ever see my father again. He's a soldier and I know he'd be mortified to death."

"He might be sorry; I don't believe he'd be mortified," said the Bishop, and somehow the half-agreement soothed Ethel. "They say that when soldiers go into battle for the first time they often are so frightened that they are nauseated. I dare say your father has seen cases like that among his own men, so he would understand that a sudden shock or surprise may bring about behavior that comes from nervousness and not from real fear. I rather think that that was what was the matter in your case."

Ethel drew a sigh of exquisite relief.

"Do you remember my two reasons for cowardice? I should think it was quite possible that in the sudden excitement of the fire your imagination worked too hard. You saw yourself smothered by the smoke or roasted in the flames. Didn't you?"

"I didn't really think it; I felt it," Ethel nodded.

"And you didn't stop to say to yourself: 'I'm going to do all I can to help and I'm going to be careful, but if anything does happen to me I'll be able to bear it.'"

"No, I didn't think that; I just thought how it would hurt. And Ethel Brown saved Dicky and wasn't afraid at all."

"She didn't let her imagination run away with her."

"I was so ashamed when she was doing splendid things and I couldn't move."

"It was too bad, but you'll have another chance, I've no doubt. You know the same Opportunity never comes twice but another one takes its place."

"I can't face Father unless it does."

"One thing you mustn't do," declared the Bishop firmly; "you mustn't think about this all the time. That isn't making your will control your imagination; it's doing just the opposite; it's letting your imagination run away with you."

Ethel looked rebuked.

"Now I want to tell you one more thing. I told you one way to avoid pain and suffering—by not expecting it. The best way of all is to do everything that comes into your life just as you think God would like to have you do it. If you work with God in that way God's peace comes to you. Have I preached too hard a sermon?" he asked as they rose to go. "You think about it and come and ask me anything else you want to. Will you?"

Ethel Blue nodded. She did not seem to have voice enough to trust herself to speak. Then she thrust her hand suddenly into the strong, gentle hand of the good man who had talked to her so kindly, gave it a big squeeze and ran away.

The Bishop looked after her.

"It was too hard a test for a nervous child; but she'll have her chance—bless her," and then he slowly walked around the edge of the Amphitheatre and rejoined his companion on the other side. Ethel Brown had just taken leave of her and was running after Ethel Blue as she dashed down the hill.

"I hope she won't catch my little friend," observed the Bishop. "She needs to sit and look at the lake for half an hour."

The address on the Holy Land given in Palestine Park in the afternoon was one of the most interesting things that Chautauqua had offered to them, Helen and Roger thought. Palestine Park, they had discovered early in their stay, was a model of Palestine on a scale of one and three-quarters feet to the mile. It lay along the shore of the lake, which played the part of the Mediterranean. Hills and valleys, mountains and streams, were correctly placed and little concrete cities dotted about in the grass brought Bible names into relation to each other in a way not possible on the ordinary map of the school geography.

"I'd like to study my Sunday School lesson right here on the spot," Helen had said when she first went over the ground and traced the Jordan from its rise through the Sea of Galilee into the Dead Sea, where, on week days, children sailed their boats and fished with pins for non-existent whales.

Now Helen and Roger stood with the throng that gathered and understood as they never had before the location of tribes and the movements of armies. Most living to them seemed the recital of the life of Christ as the speaker traced His movements from the "little town of Bethlehem" to Calvary.

The later activities of this Sunday again divided the Morton family. Mrs. Morton and Roger nodded to Dorothy at the Organ Interlude at four o'clock. Grandfather and Grandmother sat through the C.L.S.C. Vesper Service at five in the Hall of Philosophy, the westering sun gleaming softly through the branches of the oaks in St. Paul's Grove in which the temple stood. After supper came the Lakeside Service and Helen and Roger stood together in the open and sang heartily from the same book and as they gazed out over the water were thankful that their father was safe in his vessel even though he was far from them and on waters where the sun set more glowingly. Mrs. Morton stayed at home in the evening to keep watch over Dicky but all the rest went to the Song Service, joining in the soft hymn that rose in the darkness before the lights were turned on, and listening with delight to the music of the soloists and the choir.

It was after they were all gathered again at the cottage that there came one of those talks that bind families together. It was quiet Ethel Blue who began it.

"Bishop Vincent told me to-day that if you didn't think that things—bad things—were going to happen to you they were less likely to come," she said.

"Bishop Vincent told you!" exclaimed Roger. "What do you mean?"

"She had a long talk with him after the Junior Service," explained Ethel Brown. "I walked on with Miss Kimball."

"What I want to say is this," continued Ethel Blue patiently after Roger's curiosity had been satisfied; "it seems to me that you're less likely to be afraid that bad things are going to happen to you if you keep doing things for other people all the time."

"It's never wise to think about yourself all the time," agreed Mrs. Morton.

"The Bishop said that if you let your imagination run loose it might give you uncomfortable thoughts and make you afraid. If you're working for other people and inventing pleasant things to do to make them happy your imagination won't be hurting yourself."

"Our little Ethel Blue is becoming quite a chatterbox," commented Roger, giving her hair a tweak as she sat on the steps beside him.

"Hush, Roger. I wish you had half as much sense," said Helen smartly. "Anything more, Ethel?"

"Yes. I wish we had a club, just us youngsters, a club that would keep us doing things for other people all the time. Don't you think it would be fun?"

"H'm, h'm," began Roger, but a gentle nudge from Helen stopped him.

"I think it would be splendid, Ethel Blue," she said; "I know Mother thinks it's just what I need for my complaint. Mother, dear, I'm not selfish; I'm just self-respecting, and self-respecting people want to co-operate just as much as other people. I'd love to have this club to try to prove to you that I'm not a 'greedy Jo.'"

"I'm far from-thinking you a 'greedy Jo,' Helen. You're getting morbid about it, I'm afraid, and I believe this club idea of Ethel Blue's will be an excellent thing for you; and for Roger, too," she went on.

"What's the matter with me?" inquired Roger a trifle gruffly.

"You're a very dear boy," said his mother, running her fingers through his hair in a way that he was just beginning to like after years of considering it an almost unendurable habit, "but sometimes I think you've forgotten your Scout law, 'Do a kindness to some one every day.' It's not that you mean to be unkind; you're just careless."

"H'm," grunted Roger. "There seems to be a good reason for every one of us joining this club. What's the matter with Ethel Brown?"

"I know," answered Ethel Brown before her mother had time to reply; "Mother's going to tell you that I like to do things for people not to give them pleasure, but because it gives me pleasure and so I don't do things the way they like them but the way I like them. And that's really selfish and not unselfish."

"Upon my word," exclaimed Grandfather Emerson, "these children seem to be able to analyze themselves mighty closely! They agree on one thing, though—this club of Ethel Blue's is the cure that they all need for their different ailments."

"Let's have it," cried Roger. "Ethel Blue shall be president and we'll let Dicky be an honorary member and the grown-ups shall be the Advisory Board."

"Oh, I couldn't be president," said Ethel Blue shrinkingly.

"It's your idea. You ought to be," insisted Helen.

"No, you be president. And let's ask Margaret Hancock to belong, and James. You know we'll probably see a good deal of them next winter now that we know them. They're only forty minutes on the trolley from us."

"I wish we'd always known them; they're certainly great kids," pronounced Roger.

"If we have a club it will be an inducement to them to come over often."

"What'll we call the club?" Ethel Brown always liked to have details attended to promptly.

"Do for Others"; "A Thing a Day"; "Every Little Helps," were titles suggested by one voice and another.

"Why not 'The United Servers' if you are going to make it a club of service," asked Mrs. Emerson.

"Why not 'The United Service'?" demanded Roger. "With Father in the Navy and Ethel Blue's father in the Army we have the two arms of the Service united in the family, and if we call it 'The United Service Club' it will be a nice little pun for ourselves and express the idea of the club all right for outsiders."

Everybody seemed to like the suggestion.

"Now, then," declared Roger, standing below the steps and facing the family above him; "it has been moved that Helen be president. Do I hear a second?"

"You do," cried Ethel Blue.

"All right. Everybody in favor—"

"Aye."

"Contrary minded—"

Silence.

"It is a vote, and Miss Helen Morton is unanimously elected president of the United Service Club. What's the next thing to do?"

"Make Dicky an honorary member," suggested Ethel Blue.

"Go to bed," over-ruled Mrs. Morton. "There are the chimes."

So the president and members and Advisory Board of the United Service Club disappeared into the house and Dicky was not informed until the next day of the honor that had befallen him.