nd have written under it, 'When you and I were young,
Tommy' and I've drawn a cloud of steam above Tommy, with
washboilers--and tubs--and cabbages and soap suds, and his mother's
face smiling in the midst of it all--. And in your cloud is your
mother smiling, too, with her little crown on her head, and gold spoons
for a border--and a frosted cake with candles--and a mountain of
ice-cream. Perhaps you have other memories, but I had to do the best I
could with my poor little rich boy--"

It was about this time that Jean's memory book! became chaotic. Most
of the things in it had to do with Derry, a bit of pine from a young
plume which Derry had sent her from the south--triangles cut from the
letter paper on which he sometimes wrote--post-cards to say
"Good-morning," telegrams to say "Good-night"--a service pin with its
one sacred star.

There were reminders, too, of the things which were happening across
the sea, a cartoon or two, a small reproduction of a terrible Raemaeker
print; verse, much of it--

* * * * * *

They have taken your bells, O God,
The bells that hung in your towers,
That cried your grace in a lovely song,
And counted the praying hours!

The little birds flew away!
They will tell the clouds and the wind,
Till the uttermost places know
The sin that the Hun has sinned!

* * * * * *

Jean thought a great deal about the Huns. She always called them that.
She hated to think about them, but she had to. She couldn't pin the
pages together, as it were, of her thoughts. And the Huns were worse
than the sharks that had frightened her in her little girl days. Oh,
they were much worse than sharks, for the shark was only following an
instinct when it killed, and the Huns had worked out diabolically their
murderous, monstrous plan.

In the days when she had argued with Hilda, she had been told of the
power and perfection of Prussian rule. "Everything is at loose ends in
America," had been Hilda's accusation.

"Well, what if it is?" Jean had flung back at her hotly. "Having
things in place isn't the end and aim of happiness. Just because a
house is swept and garnished isn't any sign that it is a blissful
habitation. When I was a child I used to visit my two great-aunts in
Maryland. I loved to go to Aunt Mary's, but I dreaded Aunt Anne's.
And the reason was this. Everything in Aunt Anne's house went by
clock-work