"Why, yes. I believe I did. Pardon me, but, in view of matters of much greater importance, the result of this particular effort had slipped my mind." "Matters of greater importance?" "Yes. I was about to inform you that while I was in New York I unexpectedly ran across my grandson, Master Penfield Butler." She sat up with a look of surprise and apprehension in her eyes. "Ran across Pen? What was he doing there?" "He was on his way to Canada to join those forces of the Dominion Government which will eventually sail for France, and help to free that unhappy country from the heel of the barbarian." "You mean--?" "I mean that Penfield was to enlist, has doubtless now already enlisted, with the Canadian troops which, after a period of drilling at home, will enter the war on the firing line in northern France." "Well, for goodness sake!" It was all that Aunt Millicent could say, and when she had said that she practically collapsed. "Yes," he rejoined, "he felt as did I, that the time had come for American citizens, both old and young, with red blood in their veins, to spill that blood, if necessary, in fighting for the liberty of the world. Patriotism, duty, the spirit of his ancestors, called him, and he has gone." Colonel Butler was radiant. His eyes were aglow with enthusiasm. His own recommendations for national conduct had gone unheeded indeed, and his own offer of military service had been civilly declined; but these facts were of small moment compared with the proud knowledge that a young scion of his race was about to carry the family traditions and prestige into the battle front of the greatest war for liberty that the world had ever known. In Pen's second letter home from Canada he told of the arrival and enlistment of Aleck Sands, and of the complete blotting out of the old feud that had existed between them. Later on he wrote them, in many letters, all about his barrack life, and of how contented and happy he was, and how eagerly he was looking forward to the day when he and his comrades should cross the water to those countries where the great war was a reality. The letter that he wrote the day before he sailed was filled with the brightness of enthusiasm and the joy of anticipation. And while the long period of drill on English soil became somewhat irksome to him, as one reading between the lines could readily discover, he made no direct complaint. It was simply a part of the game. But it was when he had reached the front, and his letters breathed the sternness of the conflict and echoed the thunder of the guns, that he was at his best in writing. Mere salutations some of them were, written from the trenches by the light of a dug-out candle, but they pulsated with patriotism and heroism and a determination to live up to the best traditions of a soldier's career.