“Hans Schlitz,” Applegate said, musingly, “That’s the name, right enough. I’ve often heard my mother speak of him. Gloomy, brooding sort of fellow, he was. Probably went back to Europe after the war to tell his sons vile tales of the way he was treated. Poisoned their minds with hate.” “Oh—ah!” Cherry shuddered. “Gives me the creeps to think of that son of his prowling about here at night.” “Oh come!” Applegate sprang up. “It’s not as bad as all that. Come on, Cherry.” He put out his hands. “How about a song. I’ll do the honors at the old grand. Happy days.” “I’d love it!” said Cherry, allowing herself to be led away to the corner where a huge grand piano loomed out of the shadows. Taking up a candle, Alice carried it to that corner, set it on the piano, then tiptoed back. With this pale light playing across their interesting mobile faces the young Lord and Cherry took their places. The moments that followed will linger long in David’s memory. Never before had he seen or heard anything like it. The pale light playing on two bright happy faces, eager for all life, and most of all the perfect blending of mellow tones from the ancient piano with the fresh, free joy of Cherry’s voice. Ah! That was something indeed! More than once, without knowing it, he whispered: “Oh Cherry! I didn’t know you could sing like that!” From moment to moment the mood of the music changed. Now the girl’s slender form was swaying to “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow,” the next she was bringing back for good old Jock’s sake a song loved by all those of twenty years before: “There’s a long, long trail awinding Into the land of my dreams, Where the nightingale is singing And the white moon beams.” And then, springing to a place on the long piano bench she cried: “Now! Let’s all sing, Roll out the barrel.” Long before this songfest was over Dave found himself bursting with a wonderful plan. No, it was not his war. But he could do his bit, couldn’t he? And he would. When quite out of breath after her last rollicking song Cherry was led to her place by the fire, she exclaimed: “Oh! It’s wonderful just to live!” “Yes,” the Young Lord agreed. “It is grand. And yet, perhaps tomorrow we die. “Come!” He took Brand by the shoulder. “Let’s go out and see the holes those bombs dug for you. I’ve got to report to my C. O. about them.” And so the two of them disappeared into the night. “Come Peggy. Come Tillie,” Alice called. “Time for a goodnight story. And then to bed.” “Will you really tell us a spy story?” Peggy begged. “Perhaps.” “A real, true spy story!” Tillie was fairly dancing. “Yes, I guess so.” At that Alice, the two children, and Flash, the dog, marched into the small dining room to close the door behind them. “It was the Young Lord who piloted that Tomahawk plane this afternoon,” Jock said in a hoarse whisper. “I have it on good authority, the very best.” “And he said never a word about it!” Dave marvelled.