“'_Allons, enfants de la patrie_,'” began the singer in a magnificent contralto, her eyes flashing. The house hung breathless. “'_Aux armes, citoyens!_'” Her hands swept the audience. “'_Marchons! Marchons!_'” She pointed at the crowd. Each man felt her fiery glance pierce to him--France called--she was holding out her arms to her sons to die for her-- “'_Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!_'” The singer gathered the great flag to her heart. The tears rolled down her cheeks; she kissed it with the passion of a mistress. The house broke into wild cheers. Men fell upon each other's shoulders; women sobbed. The singer was dumb, but the drums rolled on--they were calling, calling. The folds of the flag dazzled Stefan's eyes. He burst into tears. * * * * * The next morning Stefan Byrd and Adolph Jensen were enrolled in the Foreign Legion of France. PART V THE BUILDER I It was spring once more. In the garden of the Byrdsnest flowering shrubs were in bloom; the beds were studded with daffodils; the scent of lilac filled the air. Birds flashed and sang, for it was May, high May, and the nests were built. Mary, warm-cheeked in the sun, and wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a pair of gardening gloves, was thinning out a clump of cornflowers. At one corner of the lawn, shaded by a flowering dog-wood, was a small sand-pit, and in this a yellow-haired two-year-old boy diligently poured sand through a wire sieve. In a white perambulator lay a pink, brown-haired, baby girl, soundly sleeping, a tiny thumb held comfortably in her mouth. Now and then Mary straightened from her task and tiptoed over to the baby, to see that she was still in the shade, or that no flies disturbed her. Mary's face was not that of a happy woman, but it was the face of one who has found peace. It was graver than of old, but lightened whenever she looked at her children with an expression of proud tenderness. She was dressed in the simplest of white cotton gowns, beneath which the lines of her figure showed a little fuller, but strong and graceful as ever. She looked very womanly, very desirable, as she bent over the baby's carriage. Lily emerged from the front door, and set a tea-tray upon the low porch table. She lingered for a moment, glancing with pride at the verandah with its green rocking chairs, hammock, and white creeping-rug. “My, Mrs. Byrd, don't our new porch look nice, now it's all done?” she exclaimed, beaming. “Yes,” said Mary, dropping into a rocking-chair to drink her tea, and throwing off her hat to loosen the warm waves of hair about her forehead, “isn't it awfully pretty? I don't know how we should have managed without it on damp mornings, now that Baby wants to crawl all the time. Ah, here is Miss Mason!” she exclaimed, smiling as that spinster, in white shirtwaist and alpaca skirt, dismounted from a smart bicycle at the gate. “Any letters, Sparrow?”