In the _Eagle_ office sat the Colonel and Mr. Strong, looking thoughtfully into their laps. Tears glistened on their cheeks; for several minutes neither of them had spoken. Held in the editor's fingers was an open letter just received, while in the Colonel's inert hand lay a clipping from the Paris _Figaro_. The Colonel now glanced up slowly but, seeing Mr. Strong's face, sharply exclaimed: "I wish you'd stop your infernal weeping, Amos!" "I wish you'd stop your own!" the editor replied with equal asperity; then both of them began to laugh. "I confess, Amos, that it's hard to keep back tears. Why, by gad, sir, he has done as much as we ever did in the old fracas over here!--more, sir! And Marian--who the devil is that fellow she eulogizes to the sky? Here," he handed over the clipping, "read this again! It's a pity it isn't printed in English!" "Let me first read what Marian says, Roger; then we'll take the clipping." Three times within the last half hour these old gentlemen had followed exactly this same routine: first taking Marian's letter, written from Paris where she had been sent for a well-earned rest, and then laboriously translating the newspaper item she inclosed to them. Mr. Strong now adjusted his glasses and began the letter a fourth time, while the Colonel leaned forward, hanging upon each word. It recited first what Tim Doreen had magnanimously told about Jeb, losing none of that Irishman's vividness; then it went on at great length to describe a certain Dr. Georges Bonsecours. Page after page she wrote of him; citing innumerable instances of his valor, both while under gruelling fire out on the field and endless hours of indefatigable work beneath the dug-out shelters. Having fully covered his present, she dashed into his past with a reckless disregard of ink and paper, and filled many other pages. Only once did the Colonel interrupt, and then to remark drily: "Seems like a pretty thorough biographical sketch, Amos." He had made this same observation, just at this same place, upon each of the previous readings; and the editor had hesitated, cleared his throat--as he now did--before continuing with the only mention Marian had written of this great surgeon's future, which was, briefly: "When the war is over, he is coming out to Hillsdale." For a fourth time now Mr. Strong's eyes grew moist, as he asked: "What do you suppose he wants to come out here to Hillsdale for?" The Colonel had not previously deigned to answer this; he had merely subsided into silence and let a lump rise in his throat in sympathy with the editor. This time, however, he turned squarely to his friend and asked: "Amos, are you trying to be a pig-headed old fool, or do you really want the truth!" Mr. Strong looked at him rather humorously. "I think I'll dodge the truth, at any rate, Roger--until this doctor arrives. How do you think Miss Sallie and Miss Veemie will take it?"