"At first they wrote! Ha! Ha!" burst out Maynard. "Sure, they wrote love-sick letters. They sent socks and cigarettes and candy and books. And they all wanted us to hurry back to marry them.... Then--when the months had gone by and the novelty had worn off--when we went against the hell of real war--sick or worn out, sleepless and miserable, crippled or half demented with terror and dread and longing for home--then, by God, they quit!" "Oh, no, Blair--not all of them," remonstrated Lane, unsteadily. "Well, old man, I'm sore, and you're about the only guy I can let out on," explained Maynard, heavily. "One thing I'm glad of--we'll face it together. Daren, we were kids together--do you remember?--playing on the commons--straddling the old water-gates over the brooks--stealing cider from the country presses--barefoot boys going to school together. We played Post-Office with the girls and Indians with the boys. We made puppy love to Dal and Mel and Helen and Margie--all of them.... Then, somehow the happy thoughtless years of youth passed.... It seems strange and sudden now--but the war came. We enlisted. We had the same ideal--you and I.--We went to France--and you know what we did there together.... Now we're on this ship--getting into port of the good old U.S.--good as bad as she is!--going home together. Thank God for that. I want to be buried in Woodlawn.... Home! Home?... We feel its meaning. But, Dare, we'll have no home--no place.... We are old--we are through--we have served--we are done.... What we dreamed of as glory will be cold ashes to our lips, bitter as gall.... You always were a dreamer, an idealist, a believer in God, truth, hope and womanhood. In spite of the war these somehow survive in you.... But Dare, old friend, steel yourself now against disappointment and disillusion." Used as Lane was to his comrade's outbursts, this one struck singularly home to Lane's heart and made him mute. The chill of his earlier misgiving returned, augmented by a strange uneasiness, a premonition of the unknown and dreadful future. But he threw it off. Faith would not die in Lane. It could not die utterly because of what he felt in himself. Yet--what was in store for him? Why was his hope so unquenchable? There could be no _resurgam_ for Daren Lane. Resignation should have brought him peace--peace--when every nerve in his shell-shocked body racked him--when he could not subdue a mounting hope that all would be well at home--when he quivered at thought of mother, sister, sweetheart!