“I was glad to do what I could for my country, even at the cost. My misfortune I have learned to look on as the _fortune_ of war. My keenest regret—” he gave a sightless glance toward the closed door—“is the loss of seeing Jane’s face. From her babyhood up, I have so enjoyed Jane’s face. I keep wondering and wondering whether it has changed or aged from the years and the suffering I’ve caused her—whether it is less or more lovely than when I last saw it that day I kissed it good-by.” “It is,” said Pape with conviction, “more lovely. It must be. You or any man would need to be a patriot, sir, to love and leave such a face. It reminds me of one I didn’t have to leave—one that led me over that long road Over There to and through hell.” “And whose face was that?” “My mother’s.” The old man looked arrested and pleased. He nodded, as though in realization of a hope. “Tell me,” he bade the younger, “what Jane looks like to you.” Well it was, perhaps, that he could not see the embarrassment he had caused. Indeed, Pape didn’t feel up to the sudden demand upon his sparse supply of fine language. He couldn’t have felt less adequate, he was sure, had he been called upon for an extemporaneous critique upon the Sistine Madonna in the presence of its creator. And yet there were reasons and reasons in this case why he should try to satisfy the eagerness of the fine old face bent his way in a listening attitude. The pathos of eyes from which the soul of sight had gone, the worthiness of the subject and a certain longing within himself to express to the next most interested person the appreciation which so far he had been unable to confide even in her who had inspired it—all urged him to make an effort. He drew a deep breath; wondered how far away she was; hoped, then feared that possibly she would overhear. He feared, lest he fall short of the flattery which must have been poured, her life long, into her ears. He hoped that she might the sooner get an idea of his reverential admiration. “Ever been to the Yellowstone?” At his abrupt question the old man chuckled. “Boy,” said he, “I knew our West before you were born. I was one of the first whites into the Park, then a wilderness. Jane tells me you’re from Hellroaring. I was one of the party that named the region.” “You don’t tell me that you are—Why, of course! I should have known. We have a peak named after you. Your hand, old scout!” The grip that answered was one of the sort Pape understood, a strong, firm, promising pact to the West that had come East. Surer at least of his visible audience, he roweled into the subject of the moment. “In terms of our Yellowstone, then, your daughter’s eyes remind me of Morning Glory Geyser. Could I say more for their color, sir?” “No. The same sun that whitened the Glory’s spray seemed to make the deeps of its pool a stronger blue. And her hair, young man, is it——?”