The little Jew stood silent a few minutes, leaning upon his rifle and looking down upon the ground. Then in a low, soft voice he began: “I was born in Poland--German Poland. The first thing I remember is seeing my mother kneeling, weeping and wringing her hands beside my father's dead body outside the door of our little house in our village. He was a student, a scholar, and a patriot.” Kellerman's voice took on a deeper and firmer tone. “He stood for the Polish language in the schools. There was a riot in our village. A German officer struck my father down and killed him on the ground. My mother wiped the blood off his white face--I can see that white face now--with her apron. She kept that apron; she has it yet. We got somehow to London soon after that. The English people were good to us. The German people are tyrants. They have no use for free peoples.” The little Jew's words snapped through his teeth. “When war came a week ago I could not sleep for two nights. On Friday I joined the Ninetieth. That night I slept ten hours.” As he finished his story the lad stood staring straight before him into the moving crowd. He had forgotten the girls who with horror-stricken faces had been listening to him. He was still seeing that white face smeared with blood. “And your mother?” said Jane gently as she laid her hand upon his arm. The boy started. “My mother? Oh, my mother, she went with me to the recruiting office and saw me take the oath. She is satisfied now.” For some moments the girls stood silent, unable to find their voices. Then Jane said, her eyes glowing with a deep inner light, “Mr. Kellerman, I am proud of you.” “Thank you, Miss Brown; it does me good to hear you say that. But you have always been good to me.” “And I want you to come and see me before you go,” said Jane as she gave him her hand. “Now will you take us out through the crowd? We must get along.” “Certainly, Miss Brown. Just come with me.” With a fine, soldierly tread the young Jew led them through the crowd and put them on their way. He did not shake hands with them as he said good-bye, but gave them instead a military salute, of which he was apparently distinctly proud. “Tell me, Jane,” said Ethel, as they set off down the street, “am I awake? Is that little Kellerman, the greasy little Jew whom we used to think such a beast?” “Isn't he splendid?” said Jane. “Poor little Kellerman! You know, Ethel, he had not one girl friend in college? I am sorry now we were not better to him.”