"Gosh! That's so, ain't it! I didn't think of guys dyin'." "But a man _has_ to think of that, Allan. And _you_ will, as you grow up. My two big sons just put off on that big troop train. I don't know _how_ long Bill and Julius will stay away. Your big cannon might go _Boom!_ and hit Bill or Julius. Do you know Frank Morgan, Paul Johnson and John Smith? All right; that big cannon might hit that trio, too. Nobody can say _who_ a cannon will hit, Allan. Now, you go right on through Grammar School, and grow up into a big strong man, and don't think about war;" and Gadsby, standing and gazing far off to Branton Hills' charming hill district, thought: "I think _that_ will bust up a wild young ambition!" But that kid, turning back, sang out:-- "Say!! If this scrap stops, and a _big_ war starts,--_Aha_, boy! You just watch Allan Banks! Son of Councilman Banks!!" and a small fist was pounding viciously on an also small bosom. "By golly!" said Gadsby, walking away, "that's Tomorrow talking!" * * * * * So now this history will drift along; along through days and months; days and months of that awful gnawing doubt; actually a paradox, for it was a "conscious coma;" mornings on which Branton Hills' icy blood shrank from looking at our city's "Post," for its casualty list was rapidly--too rapidly,--growing. Days and days of our girlhood and womanhood rolling thousands of long, narrow cotton strips; packing loving gifts from many a pantry; Nancy and Kathlyn thinking constantly of Frank and John; Lucy almost down and out from worrying about Paul; Kathlyn knowing just how Julius is missing his Hall of Natural History, and how its staff is praying for him; Nancy's radio shut down _tight_, for so much as a thought of Station KBH was as a thrust of a sword. Days. Days. Days of shouting orators, blaring bands, troops from far away pausing at our big railway station, as girls, going through long trains of cars, took doughnuts and hot drinks. In Gadsby's parlor window hung that famous "World War flag" of nothing but stars; nobody knowing at what instant a _gold_ star would show upon it. A star for Bill; a star for Julius. Ah, Bill! Branton Hills' fop! Bill Gadsby now in an ill-fitting and un-stylish khaki uniform. Gadby's mansion had no brilliant night lights, now; just his parlor lamp and a small light or two in hallways or on stairways. Only our Mayor and his Lady, now worrying, worrying, worrying; but both of good, staunch old Colonial stock; and "carrying on" with good old Plymouth Rock stability; and Nancy's baby, Lillian, too young to ask why Grandma "wasn't hungry," now; and didn't laugh so much.