Late in the afternoon of a cold, blustering day a young man presented himself at the Carstairs home. He was a smart-looking, upstanding chap in the uniform of a captain of Infantry. The new butler announced that Miss Hansbury was at home and was expecting Captain Steele. You would go far before finding a manlier, handsomer fellow than this young American soldier. Lithe, and tall, and graceful, he was every inch a man and a thoroughbred. Only a few months before, he had given up a splendid position down town, with a salary that few young men commanded and prospects that even fewer entertained, and eagerly offered himself, heart and soul, to the army that was to lift his country out of the pit of commercialism and give it a place among the proud. He had won his sword and his shoulder straps with the ease of one who earnestly strives, and at the same time he had conquered in an enterprise sweetly remote from the horrors of war. Louise Hansbury, beautiful and gifted, was wearing the emblem of surrender on the third finger of her left hand. He was to dine with the Carstairs that evening; as a privileged person, he came long ahead of the other guests of the evening. There was to be a distinguished company. A Cabinet officer, a prominent Southern Senator, an Admiral of the Navy, a Foreign Ambassador, to say nothing of more than one potentate in the realm of finance. And women whose names were not more widely-known than their deeds in these days of great endeavour,--women who had put aside frivolity and selfishness and social gluttony for the cold, hard business of making the country safe. Mrs. Carstairs, herself, was the chairman of one of the most important of the Relief Organizations controlled and operated exclusively by women; far from being a mere figure-head, she was an active, zealous worker, an inspiration to her associates. One of the guests of the evening was to be an Italian Countess whose labours in the war hospitals of her native land had made her one of the most conspicuous women in all Europe. Louise Hansbury was the daughter of Davenport Carstairs' only sister, now deceased. Since the death of her mother,--her father had died when she was a small child,--the girl had made her home with this adoring uncle. She possessed a somewhat meagre fortune,--sufficient to guarantee independence, however, if she chose to care for herself,---a circumstance that would have excited resistance in Davenport Carstairs had it ever come up for discussion. “How are you, dearest?” inquired the young officer, holding her off to look anxiously, searchingly into her eyes. The colour of health was just beginning to flow in her cheeks. “Gorgeous,” she replied, her eyes agleam with love and happiness. “Go slow,” he said gently. “Don't tax yourself too much. It's a serious job, this business of getting well.” “But I _am_ well, you goose. I never felt better in my life.” “You never were more beautiful,” he said softly.