"It is not. Nor for anybody else just now. There is something brewing there. You will see. And I think perhaps I can do a little something for both my countries, the new and the old. That is why I have come to America; to arrange my affairs, and to--say good-by." "I get you," said Archie, simply, and held out his hand. His face had fallen. "Gee, supposing neither of us comes back? What will she do then?" Nikolai gravely smiled. "Listen!" he said. Through the hush of the still afternoon came to their ears, faint but distinct, the steady clicking of a typewriter. "That is what she will do, my friend, with us or without. She has graduated from you and me--from herself as well. She has turned from men to Man; and of him the supply is inexhaustible." Archie sighed, a little jealously. "You gave her that! You've given her almost everything she values, sir, haven't you?" "Not quite everything, Blair." Archie's eyes brightened. He remembered then the thing the other had not given her: their boy. * * * * * It was a scene that etched itself upon Nikolai's memory as he stood there waiting for his car, one of those pictures the heart carries with it into far places, and forever; the pleasant, homely cottage among its flowers and gnarled apple-trees, children's voices prattling about, the smell of cooking pickle in the air, Archie's cheery, retreating whistle, and dominating all the eager clicking of a typewriter. His eyes followed the broad shoulders of the younger man, swinging along the road to the brisk, martial tread all young men have learned latterly.... Nikolai's life had thrown him into contact with all phases of the human problem, low and high. He knew how inextricably the two are mingled. Heroism, self-sacrifice, he had found in the most unlikely places, and thrilled to them as a fighting nature thrills to the drum. It hurt him to realize that the finest heroism, the most exquisite sacrifice, must always be hidden things, hidden often even from the eyes of him who sacrifices. Archibald Blair, failure in all that the world finds important, would have called himself undoubtedly a poor stick. Only to the occasional eye did he loom a hero. Nikolai looked after him sadly, listening to the steady click of that typewriter. At last he quoted to himself, with a shrug, "Meurs, parce que j'ai besoin de chanter la mort pour mes chansons."[1] Between them, he knew, they would manage to serve Joan's needs to the end. THE END [Footnote: 1 "Die, for I have need to sing of death in my songs."]