“I get you about that red bird,” he cried, “when you said not kill it! Well, there wasn’t any reason for killin’ the red bird—not any real reason. I don’t blame you for rowin’ at it. But can’t you see that killin’ men in war is differ’nt?” She looked upon him with sudden attention. While he was being directed to their street, she stood thinking about what he had said. “Is that the way you felt about it when you first said you was going to the war?” she asked when he joined her. “Gosh, no,” he replied almost reverently. “All I been wantin’ to go to war for was to raise hell—legitimate. _Don’t_ you see no differ’nce?” he repeated. It was then that she began to understand what a mighty thing had happened to him. Her insistence that war was merely killing, was merely murder, had done violence to his new idealism. And without the skill to correlate her impressions of this, she divined that here was something which was showing her, once more, the measure of this man. And she saw, too, that now she should not fail him. She could say nothing, but as they crossed the street to the station, she suddenly slipped her hand within his great swinging arm. He caught at her hand with a passion that amazed her. As his own closed over hers, she drew breathlessly away again. “Oh,” she said. “Maybe it’s late. We didn’t hurry....” He made no comment. At the station they claimed their packs and sat down to wait. Two hours or more later, as they stood by the gate, a man with many bundles jostled Lory and stood beside her, unseeing, with a long parcel jabbing at her neck. The Inger laid his great hand on him. “Say, Snickerfritz,” he said, in perfect good humor, “lamp the lady there.” And when the man apologized, the Inger smiled his slow smile, and waved his huge hand at him. As he looked at this man and at the tired woman beside the man, it occurred to the Inger that these people must all have homes. This was a thing that he had never thought about before. Always he had seen people, as it were, in the one dimension of their personal presence, taking no account of them otherwise—neither of that second dimension of their inner beings, nor of the third dimension of their relationships. “I bet they all got some little old hole they crawl into,” he said, aloud. And as the gate opened, and the two filed down the platform behind the man with the parcels and the tired woman, the Inger added: “That gink and his dame—they looked spliced. Doggone it, I bet they got a dug-out somewheres!” “Why, yes,” said Lory, in surprise. “Sure they have. What of it?” “Oh well, I donno,” he mumbled. “Nothin’ much.” In the day coach, he turned over a seat, and in the forward one, he deposited the two packs. “I don’t need two seats,” she objected. “No,” he assented. “You sit down there.”