I was heartily congratulated by officers and comrades, on receiving the _Croix de Guerre_. I would have liked to wear it at once; but rules are rules, and I decided to wait till my own Government gave me permission to do so. The next morning we left by train travelling over a beautiful country. By the middle of the afternoon we reached one of the large cities of France where we spent the night. In the evening we went to an opera. It was good to hear the music and to see the enjoyment of the people. The house was only partly filled; mostly by soldiers home on permission. The artists were from Paris, and though I did not understand much of the language, the acting was so fine that I enjoyed the performance thoroughly. Jot, who was well up in French, said, “They did as well as though a king were in the box.” When we got back to our hotel a surprise, a disagreeable one for me, awaited us. Jot’s acquaintance, the one who looked so much like him that I had thought him to be his half-brother, was there awaiting his return. “I saw your name on the register,” he explained; “and as I wish to see you on business of importance, I have been waiting here.” When I, in turn, had shaken hands with him, I said, “I have seen you before, but did not get your name, sir.” “Adolf,” interrupted Jot, as though to prevent his giving any other. “Yes,” he said quietly, “Adolf Von Rucker, it’s a German name, and an honorable one.” Then, taking Jot by the arm he added, “I wish to communicate with your friend. Will you excuse my taking him away?” The striking resemblance of the two, the German name, all added to the mystery of their acquaintance and, as I believed, their relationship. I was worried about it in an indefinable way; for I had but little faith in anything that was German. I went to bed worrying; but in those days nothing could keep me from sleep. I was awakened the next morning by Jot who came to my room and greeted me by saying, “I was sorry to leave you last evening, David.” “Was that man your half brother, Jot?” I asked. “Yes.” “Then your real name is Von Rucker, not Nickerson?” “Nickerson is a part of the name my mother gave me, and which it was her wish I should be known by. I have told you that before.” I knew that it would be useless to question him further; and I had an instinctive feeling that he had good reasons for his reserve, though I couldn’t understand it. So I dropped the matter, though I still felt that his association with one with such a name could bear no good fruit. That morning we resumed our journey on the train, and were speeding down a broad beautiful river, with mountains here and there on the opposite side, and with lovely villages and gardens with flowers, orange trees, palms, and fruit trees. Jot, who had been thoughtful and, as I thought, gloomy, threw off his depressing mood and entered heartily into the enjoyment of these scenes.