“Fortunate I was here when you came,” the young man said. “Another man is taking charge. Mr. Merrick is putting me somewhere else. I don’t know where, but I report for duty at once.” Betty took from her handbag a clipping from a newspaper. She had written the date of publication on the headlines. It was about nine months before that time. She handed the slip of paper to him. “Did you ever hear of Captain Thurston K. Hollister?” the girl asked, on a note of tremulousness. He looked during what seemed a long silence at the picture of the officer in uniform and the caption beneath it. “Where did you get this?” he asked at last. “I found it covering our pantry shelf, where it had been ever since spring.” “And you’ve brought it to me because you think I’m Hollister?” “Aren’t you?” “Yes.” “I’m glad,” she said. “I don’t know quite what you mean. Why are you glad?” “From that first day I knew you were--somebody. Can’t I be glad to learn I was right?” He read the clipping, and as his eyes moved down the column there came over his face a touch of the sardonic bitterness she knew of old. “I deserve a cross, don’t I?” “Two of them!” she cried impetuously. He looked into her ardent, generous eyes. “Oh, half a dozen,” he mocked. But she noticed the mordant flash was gone. What she did not know was that her faith had exorcised it. “Two,” the girl insisted, an underlying flush of color in the dark cheeks. “One for this.” She touched the paper he was holding. “And the other?” he asked, not yet caught up with her leaping thought. A qualm of fear shook her courage. Ought she to speak of it? Was she one of those who “rush in”? It was his personal business, and he had a right to resent any mention of it by her. But the desire was strong in her to say just a word and then close the subject for always. “For that braver thing you’ve been doing every day since I saw you last,” she said in a low voice. He, too, flushed beneath the tan of the cheeks. Their eyes held fast an instant. When he spoke, it was to say with studied lightness, “You and your father didn’t walk up, did you?” Betty was relieved. It is an embarrassing thing to talk with a man about those hidden things of his life that are important to him. She felt almost as though she had escaped from some peril. “No, the car’s on the road halfway up the hill. We couldn’t make it. Ruth’s waiting for us there,” she answered, hurrying to follow the lead he had given. “She has her favorite little puppy in the car with her. We thought the climb up might be a little too much for her.”