rd away out in Wisconsin in a country home,
painting pictures for people who knew little or nothing of art, and
cared not to know more, raising fruits and keeping bees for the means
to live? Ah, that is another story, and to tell it would make another
book; suffice it to say that for love of a beautiful woman, strong and
wise and sweet, he had followed her farmer father out into the newer
west from old New York State.

There, frail in health and delicate and choice in his tastes, but
brave in spirit, he took up the battle of the weak with life, and
fought it like a strong man, valiantly and well. And where got he his
strength? How are the weak ever made strong? Through strength of
love--the inward fire that makes great the soul, while consuming the
dross of false values and foolish estimates--from the merry heart that
could laugh through any failure, and most of all from the beautiful
hand, supple and workful, and gentle and forceful, that lay in his.

But this is not the story of Bertrand Ballard, except incidentally as
he and his family play their part in the drama that centers in the
lives of two lads, one of whom--Peter Craigmile, Junior--comes now
swinging up the path from the front gate, where three roads meet,
brave in his new uniform of blue, with lifted head, and eyes grave and
shining with a kind of solemn elation.

"Bertrand, here comes Peter Junior in a new uniform," Mary Ballard
called to her husband, who was working at a box in which he meant to
fit glass sides for an aquarium for the edification of the little
ones. He came quickly out from his workroom, and Mary rose from her
seat and pushed her mending basket one side, and together they walked
down the path to meet the youth.

"Peter Junior, have you done it? Oh, I'm sorry!"

"Why, Mary! why, Mary! I'm astonished! Not sorry?" Bertrand took the
boy's hand in both his own and looked up in his eyes, for the lad was
tall, much taller than his friend. "I would go myself if I only had
the strength and were not near-sighted."

"Thank the Lord!" said his wife, fervently.

"Why, Mary--Mary--I'm astonished!" he said again. "Our country--"

"Yes, 'Our Country' is being bled to death," she said, taking the
boy's hand in hers for a moment; and, turning, they walked back to the
house with the young volunteer between them. "No, I'm not reconciled
to having our young men go down there and die by the thousands from
disease and bullets and in prisons. It's wrong!