“War,” exclaimed Lathrop morosely, “is always cruel to the innocent.” He sped toward Carver Centre. In his motor car, he had travelled the road many times, and as always his goal had been the home of Miss Beatrice Farrar, he had covered it at a speed unrecognized by law. But now he advanced with stealth and caution. In every clump of bushes he saw an ambush. Behind each rock he beheld the enemy. In a clearing was a group of Portuguese cranberry pickers, dressed as though for a holiday. When they saw the man in uniform, one of the women hailed him anxiously. “Is the parade coming?” she called. “Have you seen any of the Reds?” Lathrop returned. “No,” complained the woman. “And we been waiting all morning. When will the parade come?” “It’s not a parade,” said Lathrop, severely. “It’s a war!” The summer home of Miss Farrar stood close to the road. It had been so placed by the farmer who built it, in order that the women folk might sit at the window and watch the passing of the stage-coach and the peddler. Great elms hung over it, and a white fence separated the road from the narrow lawn. At a distance of a hundred yards a turn brought the house into view, and at this turn, as had been his manoeuvre at every other possible ambush, Lathrop dismounted and advanced on foot. Up to this moment the road had been empty, but now, in front of the Farrar cottage, it was blocked by a touring-car and a station wagon. In the occupants of the car he recognized all the members of the Farrar family, except Miss Farrar. In the station wagon were all of the Farrar servants. Miss Farrar herself was leaning upon the gate and waving them a farewell. The touring-car moved off down the road; the station wagon followed; Miss Farrar was alone. Lathrop scorched toward her, and when he was opposite the gate, dug his toes in the dust and halted. When he lifted his broad-brimmed campaign hat, Miss Farrar exclaimed both with surprise and displeasure. Drawing back from the gate she held herself erect. Her attitude was that of one prepared for instant retreat. When she spoke it was in tones of extreme disapproval. “You promised,” said the girl, “you would not come to see me.” Lathrop, straddling his bicycle, peered anxiously down the road. “This is not a social call,” he said. “I’m on duty. Have you seen the Reds?” His tone was brisk and alert, his manner preoccupied. The ungraciousness of his reception did not seem in the least to disconcert him. But Miss Farrar was not deceived. She knew him, not only as a persistent and irrepressible lover, but as one full of guile, adroit in tricks, fertile in expedients. He was one who could not take “No” for an answer--at least not from her. When she repulsed him she seemed to grow in his eyes only the more attractive. “It is not the lover who comes to woo,” he was constantly explaining, “but the lover’s WAY of wooing.”