"Son, your fortune stares you right in the face--here. Are you goin' to turn from it?" "Yes." "You want to get in that war? You've got to fight?" "Yes." "Ah-huh!" Anderson threw up his hands in surrender. "Got to kill some Germans, hey?... Why not come out to my harvest fields an' hog-stick a few of them German I.W.W.'s?" Dorn had no reply for that. "Wal, I'm dog-gone sorry," resumed Anderson. "I see it's a tough place for you, though I can't understand. You'll excuse me for mixin' in your affairs.... An' now, considerin' other ways I've really helped you, I hope you'll stay at my home for a few days. We all owe you a good deal. My family wants to make up to you. Will you stay?" "Thank you--yes--for a few days," replied Dorn. "Good! That'll help some. Mebbe, after runnin' around 'Many Waters' with Le--with the girls--you'll begin to be reasonable. I hope so." "You think me ungrateful!" exclaimed Dorn, shrinking. "I don't think nothin'," replied Anderson. "I turn you over to Lenore." He laughed as he pronounced Dorn's utter defeat. And his look at Lenore was equivalent to saying the issue now depended upon her, and that he had absolutely no doubt of its outcome. "Lenore, take him in to meet mother an' the girls, an' entertain him. I've got work to do." Lenore felt the blushes in her cheeks and was glad Dorn did not look at her. He seemed locked in somber thought. As she touched him and bade him come he gave a start; then he followed her into the hall. Lenore closed her father's door, and the instant she stood alone with Dorn a wonderful calmness came to her. "Miss Anderson, I'd rather not--not meet your mother and sisters to-night," said Dorn. "I'm upset. Won't it be all right to wait till to-morrow?" "Surely. But I think they've gone to bed," replied Lenore, as she glanced into the dark sitting-room. "So they have.... Come, let us go into the parlor." Lenore turned on the shaded lights in the beautiful room. How inexplicable was the feeling of being alone with him, yet utterly free of the torment that had possessed her before! She seemed to have divined an almost insurmountable obstacle in Dorn's will. She did not have her father's assurance. It made her tremble to realize her responsibility --that her father's earnest wishes and her future of love or woe depended entirely upon what she said and did. But she felt that indeed she had become a woman. And it would take a woman's wit and charm and love to change this tragic boy. "Miss--Anderson," he began, brokenly, with restraint let down, "your father--doesn't understand. I've _got_ to go.... And even if I am spared--I couldn't ever come back.... To work for him--all the time in love with you--I couldn't stand it.... He's so good. I know I could care for him, too.... Oh, I thought I was bitterly resigned--hard--inhuman. But all this makes it--so--so much worse."