going in motors so as not to waste any time. I haven't even read over the marriage service. I haven't the vaguest idea what to do or say. But what difference does that make! Do you see, Len? Do you see?" She stopped and squeezed Leonard's hand, for she saw that he was suddenly speechless. "There they are," lifting the blind, "mother and little Herbert; and see the servants peeking from the wing."

They swept grandly around the bend in the avenue. The windows of the great house blazed a welcome. All the sky was mother-of-pearl and tender. In the air was the tang of spring. In the white light Marjorie saw Leonard's lips quiver and he frowned. She had a sudden twinge of jealousy, swallowed up by an immense tenderness.

"There's mother," he said.

"Hello, Len, old boy."

His father was on the steps. Leonard greeted him with the restraint and the jocose matter-of-factness that exist between men who love each other. He kissed his mother a little hungrily, just as he had when he was a small boy back from his first homesick term at Eton, and fluttered the heart of that frail, austere lady, who had borne this big, strapping boy—a feat of which she was sedately but passionately proud.

Little Herbert, all clumsiness and fat legs and arms, did a good deal of hugging and squealing, and Miss Shake, Leonard's old governess, wept discreetly and worshipfully in the background.

"Look at 'im! Ain't he grand? Glory be to God—bless 'im, my baby!" cried Irish Nannie, who had suckled this soldier of England; and loudly she wept, her pride and her joy unrebuked and unashamed.

At the risk of annoying Leonard, they must follow him about, waiting upon him at tea-time, touching him wistfully, wonderingly, for was it not himself, their own Leonard, who had come back to them for a few days? And instead of himself, it might have been just a name,—Leonard Leeds,—one among a list of hundreds of others; and written opposite each name one of the three words, Wounded, Missing, Dead.

Jealously his own family drew aside and let Marjorie go upstairs with him alone. She had the first right; she was his bride. Mr. Leeds plucked little Herbert back by his sailor collar and put his arm through his wife's. Together they watched the two slender figures ascending the broad stair-case. Each parent was thinking, "He's hers now, and they're young. We mustn't be selfish, they have such a short time to be happy in, poor dears."

"Looks fit, doesn't he?" said the father, cheerfully, patting his wife's arm. Inwardly he was thinking, "How fortunate no woman can appreciate all that boy has been through!"

"Do you think so? I thought he looked terribly thin," she answered, absently. To herself she was saying, "No one—not even his father—will ever know what that boy has seen and suffered."

Little Herbert, watching with big eyes, suddenly wriggled his hand from his father's grasp.

"Wait, Leonard, wait for me! I am coming!"

Upstairs old Nannie was officiating. She was struggling with Leonard's kit, which resembled, she thought, more the rummage box of a gypsy pedler than the luggage of a gentleman.

The young officer had taken off his great-coat and was standing with his back to the hearth. He loomed up very big in the demure room, a slender, boyish figure, still too slim for his shoulder-width and height, clad in a ragged uniform, a pistol bulging from one hip at his belt. He looked about him at the bright hangings, with a wandering gaze that reverted to a spot of sunlight on Marjorie's hair and rested there.

"I'm all spinning round," he said with a puzzled smile, "like a dream."

He continued to stare with dazed, smiling eyes on the sunbeam. His hair was cropped close like a convict's, which accentuated the leanness of his face and the taut, rigid lines about his mouth. Under his discolored uniform, the body was spare almost to the point of emaciation. Through a rent in his coat, a ragged shirt revealed the bare skin. He looked at it ruefully, still smiling. "I'm rather a mess, I expect," he said. "Tried to fix up in the train, but I was too far gone in dirt to succeed much."

Marjorie, with the instinct of a kitten that comforts its master, went up to him and rubbed her head against the torn arm.

"Don't," he said, hoarsely; "I'm too dirty." He put out a hand, and softly touched her dress. "Is it pink?" he asked, "or does it only look so in this light? It feels awfully downy and nice."

She noticed that two of his nails were crushed and discolored, and the half of one was torn away. She bent down and kissed it, to hide the tears which were choking her. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew that look which made her whole being ache with tenderness—that numb, dazed look. She had seen it before in the eyes of very young soldiers home on their first leave—mute young eyes that contained the unutterable secrets of the battlefield, but revealed none. She had seen them since she came to England, sitting with their elders, gray-haired fathers who talked war, war, war, while the young tongues—once so easily braggart—remained speechless.

What had they seen, these silent youngsters—sensitive, joyous children, whom the present day had nurtured so cleanly and so tenderly? Their bringing-up had been the complex result of so much enlightened effort. War, pestilence, famine, slaughter, were only names in a history book to them. They thought hardship was sport. A blithe summer month had plunged them into the most terrible war of the scarred old earth. The battlefields where they had mustered, stunned, but tingling with vigor and eagerness, were becoming the vast cemeteries of their generation. The field where lay the young dead was their place in the sun. The still hospital where lay the maimed was their part in a civilization whose sincerity they had trusted as little children trust in the perfection of their parents.

Beside the army of maimed and fallen boys was another shadowy army of girls in their teens and sweet early twenties—the unclaimed contemporaries of a buried generation.

There was a fumbling at the door-handle and a small, muffled voice came from the corridor:—

"I say, Len; I say, Marjorie, can I come in?" And in he walked, spotless and engaging, in a white sailor suit with baggy long trousers, his hair still wet from being tortured into corkscrew curls. "I'm all dressed for the party," he announced; "I'm not going to bed at all to-night."

Marjorie tried to draw him into her lap, but he eluded her with a resentful wiggle, and walking up to Leonard, whacked him on the thigh and looked up with a sly, beseeching glance which said, "Whack me back. You play with me. You notice me. I love you."

His eyes were on a level with Leonard's pistol; he put his little pink face close to it lovingly, but drew back again, puckering up his small nose.

"Oh, Leonard, you smell just like a poor man!" he exclaimed.

Leonard grinned. "You never got as near as this to any poor man who is half as dirty as I am, old dear."

"You've got just half an hour to dress for dinner, and we're due in the church at eight," said Marjorie.

She paused in the doorway, a slim figure in a crumpled white dress.

Leonard stared at her blankly, and then put out a bony arm and drew her to his side.

"It's awfully tough on you, honey, to have it this way; no new clothes or anything fixed up, and," he added, smiling and closing his eyes, "coming away across the ocean full of dirty little submarines to a bridegroom smelling like a poor man! Jove! I want a bath!"

"Just as I was about to take the liberty of remarking myself," old Nannie said. She was standing in the doorway, her arms akimbo and her sleeves rolled up. "Captain Leeds, it's all ready."

Leonard's arms were still about Marjorie. "Captain Leeds, otherwise known as Lieutenant Leeds," he said, "once known as Leonard, presents his compliments to Mrs. Bridget O'Garrity, née Flannagan, and wishes her to request Mr. Jakes, in the culinary