Bertrand had gone to the kitchen door. "Mary, my love, here's Richard Kildene." She entered the living room, carrying a plate of light, hot biscuit, and hurried out to Richard, greeting him warmly--even lovingly. "Bertrand, won't you and the boys carry the table out to the garden?" she suggested. "Open both doors and take it carefully. It will be pleasanter here in the shade." The young men sprang to do her bidding, and the small table was borne out under the trees, the lads enumerating with joy the articles of Mary Ballard's simple menu. "Hot biscuits and honey! My golly! Won't we wish for this in about two months from now?" said Richard. "Cream and caraway cookies!" shouted Peter Junior, turning back to the porch to help Bertrand carry the chairs. "Of course we'll be wishing for this before long, but that's part of soldiering." "We're not looking forward to a well-fed, easy time of it, so we'll just make the best of this to-night, and eat everything in sight," said Richard. Bertrand preferred to change the subject. "This is some of our new white clover honey," he said. "I took it from that hive over there last evening, and they've been working all day as if they had had new life given them. All bees want is a lot of empty space for storing honey." Richard followed Mrs. Ballard into the kitchen for the tea. "Where are the other children?" he asked. "Martha and Jamie are spending a week with my mother and father. They love to go there, and mother--and father, also, seem never to have enough of them. Baby is still asleep, and I must waken him, too, or he won't sleep to-night. I hung a pail of milk over the spring to keep it cool, and the butter is there also--and the Dutch cheese in a tin box. Can you--wait, I'd better go with you. We'll leave the tea to steep a minute." They passed through the house and down toward the spring house under the maple and basswood trees at the back, walking between rows of currant bushes where the fruit hung red. "I hate to leave all this--maybe forever," said the boy. The corners of his mouth drooped a little, and he looked down at Mary Ballard with a tender glint in his deep blue eyes. His eyes were as blue as the lake on a summer's evening, and they were shaded by heavy dark brown lashes, almost black. His brows and hair were the same deep brown. Peter Junior's were a shade lighter, and his hair more curling. It was often a matter of discussion in the village as to which of the boys was the handsomer. That they were both fine-looking lads was always conceded. Mary Ballard turned toward him impulsively. "Why did you do this, Richard? Why? I can't feel that this fever for war is right. It is terrible. We are losing the best blood in the land in a wicked war." She took his two hands in hers, and her eyes filled. "When we first came here, your mother was my dearest friend. You never knew her, but I loved her--and her loss was much to me. Richard, why didn't you consult us?"