an to a vision of terrible places,
of thundering of great guns, of young, generous blood flowing like
water. The deep, assured tones of the Russian spoke into the solemn
pause.

"There is an episode of the war which I remember. It goes to show, so
far as one incident may, where every hour was crowded with drama, how
forces worked together for democracy. It is the story of a common man of
my country who was a private in the army of your country, and who was
lifted by an American gentleman to hope and opportunity, and, as God
willed it, to honor. My old friend the Judge can tell that episode
better than I. My active part in it was small. If you like"--the dark
foreign eyes flashed about the group--"if you like I should much enjoy
hearing my old friend review that little story of democracy."

There was a murmur of approval. One man spoke, a fighting parson he had
been. "It argues democracy in itself, General, that a Russian
aristocrat, the brother of a Duke, should remember so well the
adventures of a common soldier."

The smouldering eyes of the Slav turned to the speaker and regarded him
gravely. "I remember those adventures well," he answered.

The Judge, flung back in a corner of the davenport, his knees crossed
and rings from his cigar ascending, stared at the ceiling, "Come along,
Peter. You're due to entertain us," the Senator adjured him, and the
Judge, staring upwards, began.

"This is the year 1947. It was in 1917 that the United States went into
war--thirty years ago. The fifth of June, 1917, was set, as you
remember, for the registration of all men in the country over
twenty-one and under thirty-one for the draft. I was twenty-three,
living in this house with my father and mother, both dead before the war
ended. Being outside of the city, the polling place where I was due to
register was three miles off, at Hiawatha. I registered in the morning;
the polls were open from seven A.M. to nine P.M. My mother drove me
over, and the road was being mended, and, as happened in those days in
the country, half a mile of it was almost impassable. There were no
adjustable lift-roads invented then. We got through the ruts and
stonework, but it was hard going, and we came home by a detour through
the city rather than pass again that beastly half mile. That night was
dark and stormy, with rain at intervals, and as we sat in this room,
reading, the three of us--" The Judge paused and gazed a moment at the
faces in the lam