It was pretty late when he got inside his own house and relaxed before the hearth. The kettle sang on the crane and the table was set for the evening meal. His wife poured water in the wash basin and waited upon him while he went through the motions of straightening his attire. Once at the table she ventured to break the silence. “I wish you had taken more breakfast. It has made you look peaked.” “A touch of the sun, perhaps,” said he. “The hill was hot.” “You were kept busy?” “Yes. There was enough to do.” He forgot the food on his plate and sank into a deep reverie, waking from it with a jerk of his head. “I have been mightily wrong, my dear. I now confess it. I thought this a war of agitators. But when men fight so well and so stubbornly they can not but be sincere. There can not but be stout principles in their minds and courage in their hearts.” “You have changed your opinion, Isaac?” “I think,” said he very slowly, “that I have changed my opinion and my political allegiance.” He shook his head, playing with the silverware. “Strange. I don’t quite understand it. I went to the hill a Tory doctor and came back a baptized patriot. Somewhere I changed my mind, but to save me I can’t tell where.” He drank his tea--or that imitation which passed for tea--and got up, turning toward his surcoat, the very picture of a man who fumbles in his mind for a lost idea. “I did them an injustice. Ten thousand agitators could not make men fight like that if they had not some just cause.” “Where are you going now?” “To see Missis Hammersley.” He buttoned his coat and, characteristic gesture, struck the wall with his hand. “She must change her doctor. If the provinces are good enough for such men, the provinces are good enough for me. Tomorrow I join the army.” [Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the May 8, 1926 issue of _Adventure_ magazine.]