By what unremitting exercise of self-control and loyalty those two kept the pact through the tinder-and-powder events of succeeding months only they themselves know. It was pitiful and at the same time beautiful to see the subterfuges whereby they preserved their affection from the blight of the all-devouring war, even in its remote associations. There came a day when mails arrived by a Holland steamer. That evening David waited expectant. But his friend gave out no news. The natural impatience of the Frenchman broke bounds. “And the young Hermann?” he demanded. “How goes it with our special assistant to Mother Nature?” “It goes--it goes well,” answered Jonathan. “He persuades the others to his ideas, always?” “Hermann is no longer in the gardens. He--he has left.” “Left!” cried David. “Given up--” He stopped short, looking into the face of his friend, a face whose eyes shifted uneasily away from his. Then comprehension came to him, and he did a fine and beautiful thing. “To the brave,” said he, lifting his glass, “who face death for the country that they love.” Was there, perhaps, a small savor of salt to the beer which Jonathan set down after his draught? If so, he need not have been ashamed. It seemed to me, when I saw them going home that night, that their arms were hooked a little closer than common. Not long after it was David's turn to get a letter. He sat fingering it when Jonathan entered. “From our young Robert?” asked the German. David nodded. “Am I to see it?” “He says--he says some things about--about the war,” faltered the Frenchman. “Youth is perhaps harsh. And he is a high spirit--my boy.” Something in the tone told the German. “He has enlisted?” The other father nodded. “I am glad,” said the German simply. “And may God bring him safely through!” How that could have happened which did thereafter come to pass between two souls so fine, so brave, so forbearing, is one of the mysteries of the madness of the human heart. It was on the evening when Elsa, the polyglot, had just completed her _chef-d'ouvre_ of embroidery which still hangs upon the wall. It is a legend subscribed in a double scroll, which is held in the beak of a dove of peace about half the size of the scroll, the whole being tastefully surrounded by a frieze of olive branches done in blue, Elsa's green yarn having given out prematurely. The legend reads:-- BE NEUTRAL SPEAK ENGLISH THINK AMERICAN