Dike turned to his father. A little stunned look crept into his face. A stricken, pitiful look. There was something about it that suddenly made old Ben think of Pearlie when she had been slapped by her quick-tempered mother. "But I been countin' on the farm," he said, miserably. "I just been livin' on the idea of comin' back to it. Why, I--The streets here, they're all narrow and choked up. I been countin' on the farm. I want to go back and be a farmer. I want--" And then Ben Westerveld spoke. A new Ben Westerveld--no, not a new, but the old Ben Westerveld. Ben Westerveld, the farmer, the monarch over six hundred acres of bounteous bottomland. "That's all right, Dike," he said. "You're going back. So'm I. I've got another twenty years of work in me. We're going back to the farm." Bella turned on him, a wildcat. "We ain't! Not me! We ain't! I'm not agoin' back to the farm." But Ben Westerveld was master again in his own house. "You're goin' back, Bella," he said, quietly. "An' things are goin' to be different. You're goin' to run the house the way I say, or I'll know why. If you can't do it, I'll get them in that can. An' me and Dike, we're goin' back to our wheat and our apples and our hogs. Yessir! There ain't a bigger man-size job in the world." THE DANCING GIRLS When, on opening a magazine, you see a picture of a young man in uniform with a background of assorted star-shells in full flower; a young man in uniform gazing into the eyes of a young lady (in uniform); a young man in uniform crouching in a trench, dugout, or shell-hole, this happens: You skip lightly past the story of the young man in uniform; you jump hurriedly over the picture; and you plunge into the next story, noting that it is called "The Crimson Emerald" and that, judging from the pictures, all the characters in it wear evening clothes all the time. Chug Scaritt took his dose of war with the best of them, but this is of Chug before and after taking. If, inadvertently, there should sound a faintly martial note it shall be stifled at once with a series of those stylish dots ... indicative of what the early Victorian writers conveniently called a drawn veil. Nothing could be fairer than that.