dog--pats him--tells him
he is all right now. Then Howie turns away.

But the dog thinks he will go with this nice person! Howie laughs and
tells him he can't come. A little girl has come across the street. Howie
tells her to keep the dog from following him. Then again he turns to go.
But just before he passes from sight the child calls something to him,
and he looks back over his shoulder and smiles. She sees again the smile
that has been the heart of her life. Then he passes from sight.

And he always leaves friends behind him--just as he always did leave
friends behind him. There will be little murmurs of approval; sometimes
there is applause. Tonight a woman near Laura said, "Say, I bet that's
an awful nice fellow."

She never left her seat at once, as if moving would break a spell. For a
little while after she had seen it, his smile would stay with her. Then
it would fade, as things fade in the motion pictures. Somehow she didn't
really _have_ it. That was why she had to keep coming--constantly
reaching out for something that was not hers to keep.

When her moment had gone, she rose and walked down the aisle. It was
very hard to go away tonight. There had been all the time the fear that
what happened the night before would happen again--that she would not
see Howie, after all. That made her so tense that she was exhausted now.
And then "munitions"--and "scrap-heap." Perhaps it was because of all
this that tonight her moment had been so brief. Only for an instant
Howie's smile had brought her into life. It was gone now. It had passed.

She was so worn that when, at the door, her brother Tom stepped up to
her she was not much surprised or even angry. Tom had no business to be
following her about. She had told him that she would have to manage it
her own way--that he would have to let her alone. Now here he was
again--to trouble her, to talk to her about being brave and sane--when
he didn't _know_--when he didn't have any idea what he was talking
about! But it didn't matter--not tonight. Let him do things--get the
tickets--and all that. Even let him talk to her. That didn't matter
either.

But he talked very little. He seemed to think there was something wrong
with her. He looked at her and said, "O, Laura!" reproachfully, but
distressed.

"I thought you weren't going to do this any more, Laura," he said
gently, after they had walked a little way.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked listlessly.

"They