"Yes, and soon they'll take an older set, and then they'll take the small and frail and near-sighted ones, and then--" She stopped suddenly, with a contrite glance at her husband's face. He hated to be small and frail and near-sighted. She stepped round to his side and put her hand in his. "I'm thankful you are, Bertrand," she said quietly. "You'll stay to tea with us, won't you, Peter? We'll have it out of doors." "Yes, I'll stay--thank you. It may be the last time, and mother--I came to see if you'd go up home and see mother, Mrs. Ballard. I kind of thought you'd think as father and Mr. Ballard do about it, and I thought you might be able to help mother to see it that way, too. You see, mother--she--I always thought you were kind of strong and would see things sort of--well--big, you know, more--as we men do." He held his head high and looked off as he spoke. She exchanged a half-smiling glance with her husband, and their hands clasped tighter. "Maybe, though--if you feel this way--you can't help mother--but what shall I do?" The big boy looked wistfully down at her. "I may not be able to help her to see things you want, Peter Junior. Maybe she would be happier in seeing things her own way; but I can sympathize with her. Perhaps I can help her to hope for the best, and anyway--we can--just talk it over." "Thank you, Mrs. Ballard, thank you. I don't care how she sees it, if--if--she'll only be happier--and--give her consent. I can't bear to go away without that; but if she won't give it, I must go anyway,--you know." "Yes," she said, smiling, "I suppose we women have to be forced sometimes, or we never would allow some things to be done. You enlisted first and then went to her for her consent? Yes, you are a man, Peter Junior. But I tell you, if you were my son, I would never give my consent--nor have it forced from me--still--I would love you better for doing this." "My love, your inconsistency is my joy," said her husband, as she passed into the house and left them together. The sun still shone hotly down, but the shadows were growing longer, and Betty left baby asleep under the Harvest apple tree where she had been staying patiently during the long, warm hours, and sat at her father's feet on the edge of the porch, where apparently she was wholly occupied in tracing patterns with her bare toes in the sand of the path. Now and then she ran out to the Harvest apple tree and back, her golden head darting among the green shrubbery like a sunbeam. She wished to do her full duty by the bees and the baby, and at the same time hear all the talk of the older ones, and watch the fascinating young soldier in his new uniform.