"Help him, but encourage him to be self-confident; let him take responsibilities. He understands everything well enough; all he needs is to get a grip on himself." That is what Mr. Burton had told Margaret Ellison, and Margaret Ellison, being a girl, understood better than all the army surgeons in the country. You see how it was; they had made a wreck of Tom Slade's nerves as a trifling incidental to making the world safe for democracy. He started at every little noise, he broke down in the middle of his talk, he hesitated to cross the street alone, he shuddered at the report of a bursting tire on some unlucky auto. He had never been at ease in the presence of girls, and he was now less at ease than before he had gone away. He had fought for nearly two years and Uncle Sam liked him so much that he could not bring himself to part company with him, until by hook or crook, Mr. Burton and Mr. Temple managed to get him discharged and put him in the way of finding himself at his old job in Temple Camp office. It was a great relief to him not to have to salute lieutenants any more. The shot and shell he did not mind, but his arm was weary with saluting lieutenants. It was the dream of Tom Slade's life never to see another lieutenant as long as he lived. He leaned against the table near Miss Margaret Ellison and said, "I--I want--I have to send a letter to a troop that's in Ohio--in a place called--called Dansburg. Shall I dic--shall I say what I want to tell them?" "Surely," she said cheerily. "Maybe if it isn't just right you can fix it up," he said. "You say it just the way you want to," she encouraged him. "It's to the Second Dansburg Troop and the name of the scoutmaster is William Barnard," Tom said, "and this is what I want to say...." "Yes, say it in your own words," she reminded him. "We got--I mean received," he dictated hesitatingly, "your letter and we can give you--can give you--three cabins--three cabins together and kind of separate like you say--numbers five, six, and seven. They are on the hill and separate, and we hope to hear from you--soon--because there are lots of troops asking for cabins, because now the season is beginning. Yours truly." "Is that all right?" he asked rather doubtfully. "Surely it is," she said; "and don't forget what Mr. Burton told you about going home early and resting. Remember, Mr. Burton is your superior officer now." "Are you going home soon?" he asked her. "Not till half-past five," she said. He hesitated as if he would like to say something more, then retreating rather clumsily, he got his hat and said good-night, and left the office. The letter which he had dictated was not laid upon Mr. Burton's desk for signature in exactly the phraseology which Tom had used, but Tom never knew that. This is the way the letter read: MR. WILLIAM BARNARD, Scoutmaster, Second Dansburg Troop, Dansburg, Ohio. DEAR SIR: