These the Hayneses! These people, with hope and self-esteem once more in their hearts! These people, with a new, a unique place in the community’s respect! It was all like a beautiful miracle; and, thinking of its maker, Luke choked suddenly and gulped. There was a moist spot on the old Mexican hairless right under his eyes; but it had been made by tears of pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A hero’s folks hadn’t ought to cry. And he wouldn’t. Nat was better off than ever—safe and honored. He had trod the path of glory. A line out of the boy’s old Reader sprang to his mind: “The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” Oh, but it wasn’t true! Nat’s path led to life—to hope; to help for all of them, for Nat’s own. In his death, if not in his life, he had rehabilitated them. And Nat—who loved them—would look down and call it good. In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his brother’s face. “Oh, Nat!” he whispered. “I knew you’d do it! I always said you’d do somethin’ big for us all.” —Mary Brecht Pulver. VIII—SERGT. WARREN COMES BACK FROM FRANCE Immediately after voting, the Rev. Jeremiah Soule stepped outside the town hall to fortify himself with fresh air for the coming meeting. Several others had done the same. “Been a hard winter, Mr. Soule,” politely remarked one of the loiterers about the door. He was clad for the gusts of March like a sealer about to venture forth upon an Arctic floe. “And especially for the boys in the trenches,” said the minister. “That’s a fact, sir. I didn’t mean we’d ought to complain. We had our share of coal and wood, I guess, if the wood _was_ green and the coal mostly slate.” “And we had the money to pay for it.” The group of men stirred a little uneasily. “Honestly made, I think you’ll admit that, sir,” said Arthur Watts, a strapping fellow of thirty years, who had been called in the first draft and rejected on account of his poor teeth. “I believe so—quite,” admitted Mr. Soule. “We are making good rope for the government and our allies, and no one is better pleased over it than I. I’m proud of the cordage plant. Yes, since this dreadful war had to be, the town has come honestly enough by its prosperity.” The group felt that Mr. Soule had tactfully dodged the real issue, and they were content to have it so. Just then the polls were closed, and those who had brought lunch boxes proceeded to consume the contents. Others presented themselves at the anteroom, where George Bassett was dispensing his famous chowder and coffee, together with pickles and bread and butter. “It frets the parson to see us keeping our money instead of blowing it all out in charity,” remarked Watts, across a steaming mug of strong coffee. He laughed indulgently. His friends did not echo his amusement. They looked, if not exactly ill at ease, at any rate somewhat sober.