the words of the 'Marseillaise' or an
Englishman forgetting 'God Save the King.' We don't shout and sing
enough, we don't cry enough, we don't feel enough--and that's all there
is to it. If we were hot for the triumph of democracy, there would be
no chance of victory for the Hun. Perhaps as the war comes nearer, we
shall feel more, and every day it is coming nearer--"

It was very near, indeed. Thousands of those gray sheep were lying
dead on the plains of Picardy--the Allies fought with their backs to
the wall--Americans who had swaggered, secure in the prowess of Uncle
Sam, swaggered no longer, and pondered on the parable of the Wise and
Foolish Virgins.

Slowly the nation waked to what was before it. In America now lay the
hope of the world. The Wolf must be trapped, the sheep saved in spite
of themselves, those poor sheep, driven blindly to slaughter.

The General was not quite sure that they were sheep, or that they were
being driven. He held, rather, that they knew what they were
about--and were not to be pitied.

Teddy, considering this gravely, went back to previous meditations, and
asked if he prayed for his enemies.

"Bless my soul," said the old gentleman, "why should I?"

"Well, Mother says we must, and then some day they'll stop and say they
are sorry--"

The General chuckled, "Your mother is optimistic."

"What's 'nopt'mistic?"

"It means always believing that nice things will happen."

"Don't you believe that nice things will happen?"

"Sometimes--"

"Don't you believe that the war will stop?"

"Not until we've thrown the full force of our fighting men into it--at
what a sacrifice."

"Can't God make it stop?"

"He can, but He won't, not if He's a God of justice," said this staunch
old patriot, "until America has brought them to their knees--"

"Will they say they are sorry then?"

"It won't make very much difference what they say--"

But Teddy, having been brought up to understand the things which belong
to an officer and a gentleman, had his own ideas on the subject.
"Well, I should think they'd ought to say they were sorry--."

CHAPTER XXVII

MARCHING FEET

The end of April brought much rain; torrents swept down the smooth
streets, and the beauty of the carefully kept flower beds in the parks
was blurred by the wet.

The General, limping from window to window, chafed. He wanted to get
out, to go over the hills and far away; with the coming of the spring
the wa