"I'm dead sleepy," she half whispered. "The wind in my face and the sun are too soporific for me. Let us not say a word to each other." "You read last night," Millicent accused her. "But I don't feel particularly conversational myself." She leaned back and surveyed the scene again. She could read the words graved on the granite block beneath the bronze soldier: "To the men of Warren who fought that their country might be whole and their fellows free this tribute of love is erected." And there followed the honor-roll of Warren's fallen. Millicent's sensitive lips quivered a little. Her ready imagination pictured them coming to this very square, perhaps,--the men of Warren. Boys from the hill farms, men from the village shops, the blacksmith who had worked in the light of yonder old forge, the carpenter who was father to the one now leisurely hammering a yellow L upon that weather-stained house,--she saw them all. What had led them? What call had sounded in their ears that they should leave their ploughshares in the furrows, their tills, their anvils, and their benches? What better thing had stirred with the primeval instinct for fight, with the unquenchable, restless longing for adventure, to send them forth? She read the words again--"that their country might be whole and their fellows free." She moved impatiently. For now an old shadowy theory of hers--an inheritance from the theories of the recluse, her father--stirred from a long-drugged quiet: a theory that there was a disintegrating unpatriotism in the untouched, charmed life of riches she and her fellows sought. She felt the disturbing conviction that those common men--she could almost hear their blundering speech, see their uncouth yawns at the sights and sounds of beauty on which she fed her soul--that those men had wells of life within them purer, sweeter, than she. She averted her eyes from the monument. "Honey!" called a voice, full-throated and loving--"honey, where are you?" There was a play-tent on the little patch of yard before the brown cottage to the left. The voice had come from the narrow piazza. Millicent shivered as she looked at it, with its gingerbread decorations already succumbing to the strain of the seasons. The answer came from the tent: "Here I am, muvver. Did you want me?" She came out--a child of five or six years. The round-eyed solemnity of babyhood had not left her yet. She brought her small doll family with her, and a benevolent collie ambled beside her. Her mother watched, tenderness beautifying her brown eyes: she was a young woman,