r thoughts.

"You've had a terrible shock--when you are stronger," said the doctor.

"When you have had something to eat and drink," observed the practical
Minna authoritatively.

Marta would not have the food brought to her. She insisted that she was
strong enough to accompany Minna to the tower. While Minna urged
mouthfuls down Marta's dry throat as she sat outside the door of the
sitting-room with her mother a number of weary, dust-streaked faces,
with feverish energy in their eyes, peered over the hedge that bounded
the garden on the side toward the pass. These scout skirmishers of
Stransky's men of the 53d Regiment of the Browns made beckoning gestures
as to a crowd, before they sprang over the hedge and ran swiftly,
watchfully, toward the linden stumps, closely followed by their
comrades. Soon the whole garden was overrun by the lean, businesslike
fellows, their glances all ferret-like to the front.

"Look, Minna!" exclaimed Marta. "The giant who carried the old man in
pickaback the first night of the war!"

"Yes, the bold impudence of him!" said Minna. "As if there was nothing
that could stand in his way and what he wanted he would have!"

But Minna was flushing as she spoke. The flush dissipated and she drew
up her chin when Stransky, looking around, recognized her with a merry,
confident wave of his hand.

"See, he's a captain and he wears an iron cross!" said Marta as
Stransky hastened toward them.

"He acts like it!" assented Minna grudgingly.

Eager, leviathan, his cap doffed with a sweeping gesture as he made a
low bow, Stransky was the very spirit of retributive victory returning
to claim the ground that he had lost.

"Well, this is like getting home again!" he cried.

"So I see!" said Minna equivocally.

Stransky drew his eyes together, sighting them on the bridge of his nose
thoughtfully at this dubious reception.

"I came back for the chance to kiss a good woman's hand," he observed
with a profound awkwardness and looking at Minna's hand. "Your hand!" he
added, the cast in his eyes straightening as he looked directly at her
appealingly.

She extended her finger-tips and he pressed his lips to them. Then she
drew back a step, a trifle pale, her eyes sad and questioning, more than
ever Madonna-like, and curled her arm around little Clarissa Eileen, who
had stolen to her mother's side.

"What is that?" asked Clarissa Eileen, pointing to the cross on
Stransky's breast.

"That," observed