They found seats in the parlor that appeared to be the same shabby genteel place where Lane had used to call upon Blair's sister. "What ails Red?" queried Lane, bluntly. "Lord only knows. He's a queer duck. Once in a while he lets out a crack like that. There's a lot to Red." "Blair, his heart is broken," said Lane, tragically. "Well!" exclaimed Blair, with quick almost haughty uplift of head. He seemed to resent Lane's surprise and intimation. It was a rebuke that made Lane shrink. "I never thought of Red's being hurt--you know--or as having lost.... Oh, he just seemed like so many other boys ruined in health. I----" "All right. Cut the sentiment," interrupted Blair. "The fact is Red is more of a problem than we had any idea he'd be.... And Dare, listen to this--I'm ashamed to have to tell you. Mother raised old Harry with me this morning for fetching Red home. She couldn't see it my way. She said there were hospitals for sick soldiers who hadn't homes. I lost my temper and I said: 'The hell of it, mother, is that there's nothing of the kind.' ... She said we couldn't keep him here. I tried to coax her.... Margie helped, but nothing doing." Blair had spoken hurriedly with again a stain of red in his white cheek, and a break in his voice. "That's--tough," replied Lane, haltingly. He could choke back speech, but not the something in his voice he would rather not have heard. "I'll tell you what. As soon as Red is well enough we'll move him over to my house. I'm sure mother will let him share my room. There's only Lorna--and I'll pay Red's board.... You have quite a family--" "Hell, Dare--don't apologize to me for my mother," burst out Blair, bitterly. "Blair, I believe you realize what we are up against--and I don't," rejoined Lane, with level gaze upon his friend. "Dare, can't you see we're up against worse than the Argonne?--worse, because back here at home--that beautiful, glorious thought--idea--spirit we had is gone. Dead!" "No, I can't see," returned Lane, stubbornly. "Well, I guess that's one reason we all loved you, Dare--you couldn't see.... But I'll bet you my crutch Helen makes you see. Her father made a pile out of the war. She's a war-rich snob now. And going the pace!" "Blair, she may make me see her faithlessness--and perhaps some strange unrest--some change that's seemed to come over everything. But she can't prove to me the death of anything outside of herself. She can't prove that any more than Mel Iden's confession proved her a wanton. It didn't. Not to me. Why, when Mel put her hand on my breast--on this medal--and looked at me--I had such a thrill as I never had before in all my life. Never!... Blair, it's _not_ dead. That beautiful thing you mentioned--that spirit--that fire which burned so gloriously--it is _not_ dead." "Not in you--old pard," replied Blair, unsteadily. "I'm always ashamed before your faith. And, by God, I'll say you're my only anchor."