Ah! What an important part of a city's institutions a hospital is! What a comfort to all, to know that, should injury or any ailing condition of man, woman or child occur without warning, anybody can, simply through phoning find quick transportation at his door; and, with angrily clanging gongs, or high-pitch whistlings obtaining a "right of way" through all traffic, that institution's doors will swing apart, assistants will quickly surround that cot, and an ability for doing anything that Man _can_ do is at hand. You know, almost daily, of capitalists of philanthropic mold, donating vast sums to a town or an association; but, in your historian's mind, no donation can do so much good as that which builds, or maintains hospitalization for all. A library, a school, a boys' or girls' club, a vacation facility, a "chair" of this or that in an institution of instruction,--all do much to build up a community. Both doctoring as a study for a young man, and nursing for a girl form most important parts of Mankind's activity. And so, just four months from that awful, but also happy day, Arthur Rankin sat in a hammock with Priscilla, on Lady Standish's porch, with four small Rankins playing around; or was walking around that back yard full of cats, dogs, rabbits, and so on, with no thought of soap box orations in his mind. XXXI On a grand autumn morning Branton Hills' "Post" boys ran shouting down Broadway, showing in half-foot wording: "FIGHTING STOPS!! HISTORY'S MOST DISASTROUS WAR IS HISTORY NOW!!!" and again, Branton Hills stood stock still. But only for an instant; for soon, it was, in all minds:-- "Thank God!! Oh, _ring_ your loud church clarions! _Blow_ your factory blasts! Shout! Cry! Sing! _Play_, you bands! Burst your drums! Crack your cymbals!" Ah, what a sight on Broadway! Shop girls pouring out! Shop janitors boarding up big glass windows against a surging mob! And, (sh-h-h-h) many a church having in its still sanctity a woman or girl at its altar rail. Months, months, months! Branton Hills was again at its big railroad station, its Municipal Band playing our grand National air, as a long troop train, a solid mass of bunting, was snorting noisily in. And, amidst that outpouring flood of Branton Hills boys, Lady Gadsby, Nancy, Kathlyn and His Honor found Bill, Julius, Frank and John. Sarah was just "going all apart" in Paul's arms, with Virginia swooning in Harold's. On old Lady Flanagan's porch sat Mary Antor; for, having had no word from Norman for months, this grand young Salvation Army lass was in sad, sad doubt. But soon, as that shouting mob was drifting away, and happy family groups walking citywards, a khaki-clad lad, hurrying to old Lady Flanagan's cabin, and jumping that low, ivy-clad wall, had Mary, sobbing and laughing, in his arms. No. It wasn't Norman. XXXII