elds--the days when the bisque babies had smiled on happy
working-households were over. There was death and darkness where once
the rollicking clowns and dancing dolls had been set to mechanical
music.

Jean, coming back with the chocolate, found Emily with a great white
plush elephant in her arms. His trappings were of red velvet and there
was much gold; he was the last of a line of assorted sizes.

There had always been a white elephant in Miss Emily's window.
Painfully she had seen her supply dwindle. For this last of the herd,
she had a feeling far in excess of his value, such as a collector might
have for a rare coin of a certain minting, or a bit of pottery of a
pre-historic period.

She had not had the heart to sell him. "I may never get another. And
there are none made like him in America."

"After the war--" Jean had hinted.

Miss Emily had flared, "Do you think I shall buy toys of Germany after
this war?"

"Good for you, Emily. I was afraid you might."

But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily wrapped the old mastodon up
in a white cloth. "I believe I'll take him home with me. People are
always asking to buy him, and it's hard to explain."

"I should say it is. I had an awful time with him," she indicated the
old gentleman, "yesterday."

She set the tray down on the counter. There was a slim silver pot on
it, and a thin green cup. She poked the sleeping man with a tentative
finger. "Won't you please wake up and have some chocolate."

Rousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hospitality. "My dear young
lady," he said, with a trace of courtliness, "you shouldn't have
troubled--" and reached out a trembling hand for the cup. There was a
ring on the hand, a seal ring with a coat of arms. As he drank the
chocolate eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old coat.

He was facing the door. Suddenly it opened, and his cup fell with a
crash.

A young man came in. He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the old
gentleman. He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat. He took
off his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness. His
eyebrows made a dark pencilled line--his eyes were gray. It was a
striking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache.

He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder,
"Hello, Dad." Then, anxiously, to the two women, "I hope he hasn't
troubled you. He isn't quite--himself."

Jean nodded. "I am