ht hour with Margaret's
children. There was Theodore, the boy, and Margaret-Mary, on the edge
of three. They had their supper at five in the nursery, and after that
there was always the story hour, with nurse safely downstairs for her
dinner, their mother, lovely in a low-necked gown, and father coming in
at the end. For several months their father had not come, and the best
they could do was to kiss his picture in the frame with the eagle on
it, to put flowers in front of it, and to say their little prayers for
the safety of men in battle.

It was Cousin Derry who dropped in now at the evening hour. He was a
famous story-teller, and they always welcomed him uproariously.

Margaret Morgan, perhaps better than any other, knew in those days what
was in Derry's heart. She knew the things against which he had
struggled, and she had rebelled hotly, "Why should he be sacrificed?"
she had asked her husband more than once during the three years which
had preceded America's entrance into the war. "He wants to be over
there driving an ambulance--doing his bit. Aunt Edith always idealized
the General, and Derry is paying the price."

"Most women idealize the men they love, honey-girl." Winston Morgan
was from the South, and he drew upon its store of picturesque
endearments to express his joy and pride in his own Peggy. "And if
they didn't where should we be?"

She had leaned her head against him. "I don't need to idealize you,"
she had said, comfortably, "but the General is different. Aunt Edith
made Derry live his father's life, not his own, and it has moulded him
into something less than he might have been if he had been allowed more
initiative."

Winston had shaken his head. "Discipline is a mighty good thing in the
Army, Peggy, and it's a mighty good thing in life. Derry Drake is as
hard as steel, and as finely tempered. If he ever does break loose,
he'll be all the more dynamic for having held himself back."

Margaret, conceding all that, was yet constrained to pour out upon
Derry the wealth of her womanly sympathy. It was perhaps the knowledge
of this as well as his devotion to her children which brought him often
to her door.

Tonight she was sitting on a low-backed seat in front of the fire with
a child on each side of her. She was in white, her dark hair in a
simple shining knot, a little pearl heart which had been Captain
Morgan's parting gift, her only ornament.

"Go on with your story," he sai