His mother was not in the kitchen. The door stood open. He heard her outside talking to a neighbor woman, over the fence. "--Daren looks dreadful," his mother was saying in low voice. "He could hardly walk.... It breaks my heart. I'm glad to have him along--but to see him waste away, day by day, like Mary Dean's boy--" she broke off. "Too bad! It's a pity," replied the neighbor. "Sad--now it comes home to us. My son Ted came in last night and said he'd talked with a boy who'd seen young Maynard and the strange soldier who was with him. They must be worse off than Daren--Blair Maynard with only one leg and--" "Mother, where are you? I'm hungry," called Lane, interrupting that conversation. She came hurriedly in, at once fearful he might have heard, and solicitous for his welfare. "Daren, you look better in daylight--not so white," she said. "You sit down now, and let me get your breakfast." Lane managed to eat a little this morning, which fact delighted his mother. "I'm going to see Dr. Bronson," said Lane, presently. "Then I'll go to Manton's, and round town a little. And if I don't tire out I'll call on Helen. Of course Lorna has gone to work?" "Oh yes, she leaves at half after eight." "Mother, I was awake last night when she got home," went on Lane, seriously. "It was one o'clock. She came in a car. I heard girls tittering. And some boy came up on the porch with Lorna and kissed her. Well, that might not mean much--but something about their talk, the way it was done--makes me pretty sick. Did you know this sort of thing was going on?" "Yes. And I've talked with mothers who have girls Lorna's age. They've all run wild the last year or so. Dances and rides! Last summer I was worried half to death. But we mothers don't think the girls are really _bad_. They're just crazy for fun, excitement, boys. Times and pleasures have changed. The girls say the mothers don't understand. Maybe we don't. I try to be patient. I trust Lorna. I can't see through it all." "Don't worry, mother," said Lane, patting her hand. "I'll see through it for you. And if Lorna is--well, running too much--wild as you said--I'll stop her." His mother shook her head. "One thing we mothers all agree on. These girls, of this generation, say fourteen to sixteen, _can't_ be stopped." "Then that is a serious matter. It must be a peculiarity of the day. Maybe the war left this condition." "The war changed all things, my son," replied his mother, sadly. Lane walked thoughtfully down the street toward Doctor Bronson's office. As long as he walked slowly he managed not to give any hint of his weakness. The sun was shining with steely brightness and the March wind was living up to its fame. He longed for summer and hot days in quiet woods or fields where daisies bloomed. Would he live to see the Indian summer days, the smoky haze, the purple asters?