es, roused her. Allison was at her side and
Dane, whose wife, weeping, was pulling at her bare arm. Colcord and
Simec stood to one side, aloof, as though already detached from the
world.

"Evelyn!" Allison's voice was peremptory. "I command you! You're the
only one who has the right to check this damn foolishness. I command you
to speak."

"Evelyn--" Dane's voice trailed into nothingness.

Again her eyes turned to Sybil Latham, and then, rigidly as an
automaton, she walked swiftly to her husband's side. For a moment the
two stood facing each other, eye riveted to eye. Her beautiful bare arms
flew out swiftly, resting upon his shoulders, not encircling his neck.

"Nick--" Her voice was low, guttural. "I--I didn't help you much, did I,
dear heart? I didn't understand. They've been saying it would all come
home to us. But I didn't think so quickly--nor to us. I--I wasn't ready.
I am now. I want to help; I--I--" Her fingers clutched his shoulders
convulsively. "When--when do you go?"

Colcord stood a moment, his eyes smouldering upon her.

"To-morrow morning at seven," he replied. "That was the hour, Professor
Simec?" he added with a side-wise inclination of his head.

"Yes." The scientist looked away, hesitated, and then joined in the
little procession to the dimly lighted hall. Evelyn started as she felt
her fingers locked together in a firm hand.

"You _know_, dear girl, don't you?" There was a mist in Latham's eyes.

But Evelyn's face was light.

"Yes, Jeffery," she said proudly, "I know now."

THE PATH OF GLORY[19]

[Note 19: Copyright 1917, by The Curtis Publishing Company.
Copyright 1918, by Mary Brecht Pulver.]

BY MARY BRECHT PULVER

From _The Saturday Evening Post_.

It was so poor a place--a bitten-off morsel "at the beyond end of
nowhere"--that when a February gale came driving down out of a steel sky
and shut up the little lane road and covered the house with snow a
passer-by might have mistaken it all, peeping through its icy fleece,
for just a huddle of the brown bowlders so common to the country
thereabouts.

And even when there was no snow it was as bad--worse, almost, Luke
thought. When everything else went brave and young with new greenery;
when the alders were laced with the yellow haze of leaf bud, and the
brooks got out of prison again, and arbutus and violet and buttercup
went through their rotation of bloom up in the rock pastures and maple
bush--the farm buildings seemed