“I wonder if the seed did take root, and will it grow?” was all Jack whispered to himself, as he calmly turned over to continue his interrupted sleep. So the dawn found them. Daylight, sweeping in through the small windows told Jack it was time they were up. He aroused Amos, who was apparently content to linger indefinitely in his cozy bed. “It’s morning, Amos!” he called out. “Time we were moving, if we mean to do anything today.” “And say, Jack, seems to me I can smell cooking going on in the bargain, which is always as good as a goad to get me out of bed,” with which Amos proceeded to reach for his shoes. Yes, they could hear the old couple moving about below stairs. Jack was not sure but it did seem to him that their footsteps had a more sprightly ring. Somehow the very suspicion of such a thing did him good, though he did not think it worth while to mention the fact to Amos. “We must be on the border of Ypres, don’t you think?” Amos remarked, showing that he was naturally thinking of the chances they had of finding the daring aviator who answered to the name of Frank Bradford, and whom he fully believed must be his own brother. “Everything points that way,” replied Jack. “Looking out, I’ve already seen troops hurrying past, British Tommies at that, and all looking fit for any kind of fighting if their eager faces counted for anything. But if you’re ready we’ll go down below, get a bite, and then make the old people accept all we can spare; for the chances are they’ll need every franc they can get together before the end of this nasty business comes around.” Amos was thinking mostly of the delightful odor of cooking as he came down the ladder-like stairs that led from the loft to the lower floor of the cottage. With Jack it was somewhat different, for his first thought was to look keenly at François and his wife, who had faced about on hearing the trap raised. When Jack saw that the careworn expression had been magically lifted from those furrowed faces he felt almost like giving a shout of real satisfaction. Straight over to them he hurried, still keeping his eyes fastened on their telltale faces. “What is the good word, François?” he asked, in his straight-from-the-shoulder fashion; and indeed there was hardly any necessity to even ask that much, Jack thought, since appearances speak more loudly than words.