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to a prison camp in Germany, where he was dreadfully treated and given scarcely enough to eat. Then, because he could talk English and pretended to be an American, he managed to escape to Holland—and from there it was no trouble to come back home.

"I looked to find you in Paris," he ended. "I knew you would be worried about me, so I hurried there as fast as I could."

"And you found me in Rheims in a hospital!" I said, thinking it strange. "But what is the matter with me?" I asked; remembering that I did not really know why I was there.

"You were shocked by the explosion of a bomb, my dear," he answered. "Luckily you were not wounded, but it will be some time yet before you are out of bed."

I was not particularly curious about my own condition. Papa was there, and nothing else seemed to matter.

Presently, as we talked, I noticed that on my nightgown was the cross of war which Father had won, and in a moment I was fumbling at it. "It 's yours," I told him. "I want to pin it on your uniform."

He leaned over, and soon it was on his breast. I was very glad.

"It looks better there," I said. "Now I can see it."

"Yes, but I can't," he laughed. "Before, while you were wearing it, I could admire it without trouble. Now I shall have to stand before the mirror all day."

I laughed, of course, that is what he wanted me to do,—and he too laughed. Then the tears came into his eyes and he leaned down and kissed me again.

"Oh, my dear, it is so good to hear that laugh of yours!" he whispered.

And then I laughed again, knowing of what he was thinking, though the tears were in my eyes too.

But we were very happy and, to crown all, the next day there came a high officer into the ward who was led directly to my bed. I looked up at him and recognized the gentleman I had met at the general's headquarters that night I went to try to help Léon. He and Father knew each other and shook hands; then the officer turned to me with his queer, inexpressive face.

"Mademoiselle," he began formally, "I have the pleasure of being commissioned to bestow upon you the medal for bravery, the Croix de Guerre."

"For me?" I cried out in surprise. "Why, I have done nothing!"

"Mademoiselle," he replied, "you have saved

the life of a soldier at the immediate risk of your own. That deed alone is worthy of the Cross, but we find, upon examination, that in Paris as well as in Rheims, in all things you have acted as a brave and worthy daughter of our land. The Abbé Chinot tells us that you should have had the Cross long ago for what you did here in the first days of the bombardment of the cathedral. In Paris I learned that you set your hand willingly to any duty that might help our soldiers

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"Monsieur," I interrupted, "that required no bravery."

"Mademoiselle," he answered, soberly, "the Croix de Guerre stands for something more than doing brave things on the battle-field. It means more than doing one's duty as it comes in the day's work of the soldier. It is a badge to show the spirit of the wearer. That brave and glorious spirit that has held us all under one banner, the tricolor of France."

"Then all French women should wear the medal," I observed, "and the men, too."

"Mademoiselle," he returned with a little bow, "I agree with you, but until a new order is issued the Cross is given to those who have both the spirit and the achievement. Permit me."

He leaned over the bed and pinned a new Cross upon my breast.

"My congratulations, Monsieur le Capitaine," he said, turning to Father. "Upon another occasion I shall have the pleasure to talk more at length upon the services of your daughter."

He started to go, but I called to him.

"Oh, Monsieur, what has happened to Léon

"He is in Paris, Mademoiselle. He has given us much valuable information. I think you deserve another medal for saving him.” And with that he went stiffly out of the ward. For a moment Father and I looked at each other without speaking.

"Well," he began finally, "now I shall not have to stand in front of the mirror to see a Cross of War."

"Nor shall I," was my answer; and then a thought came to plague me. "Will you have to go back to your regiment?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, "you would not have it otherwise, I know."

"And I back to my funny little school. You remember, Father," I went on, "how I longed to do something as our dear saint did to save France? How I wanted to be a boy and go to the front? Well, I have found my work and am happy. Wait till you have seen my

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little school, and Paul and Henriette and Alice
They will be fine
and I shall have

and-and little Fleurette.
French men and women,
helped to make them good citizens. That is
worth something, is n't it?"

For a moment he sat silent, thinking deeply, then he spoke with quiet gravity.

"When this war is done, when we have put an end to war, it will be known by all people that it is better to make good citizens than the finest general that ever lived. Le Bon Dieu has found work for us all, and I think the good Saint Jeanne is right pleased to see the Cross upon your breast."

"It was she who helped me to win it," I answered. "She is still leading France, Papa, but when will the war end?"

"When we have made the earth safe for kindly people who wish to live at peace with all the world," he replied.

AN EXTRACT FROM JEANNETTE'S DIARY

RHEIMS, April 3rd, 1915. To-morrow I am to leave the hospital and return to my school dans la terre. I think they have kept me here too long. I shall be glad to be with my children once more. And Léon Guyot came to see me to-day. He is not a spy in future, but will train for the aviation. He looks very handsome in his uniform.

Also a letter came from Eddie Reed. He begs me to answer him. His French is very funny. Perhaps it is my duty to help him write our language better. This is a matter which requires consideration. Léon is not as tall as Eddie, but he has fine eyes.

Papa is expecting to be ordered lâ bas. It
will be hard to let him go but-c'est la guerre!
Whatever happens, we shall endure.
Vive la France!

THE END

RUSTY ON THE TRACK
By JOSEPH T. KESCEL

STRAIGHT out onto the brush-dotted flat they
raced at top speed, their pounding hoofs kick-
ing up tiny dust-clouds that were quickly
scattered by the stiff southwest-Texas breeze.
A hundred yards-two-three-a quarter-
mile; then the snaky lariat noose, circling
above Houston Page's head, suddenly shot
forward and settled around the neck of a
magnificent big black horse, saddled and
bridled, but riderless. Rusty, Houston's beau-
tiful sorrel, at once started to slow down.
rope grew taut, and the black was brought to
a standstill just as a half dozen bronzed-faced
cowboys dashed up, Jack Bromley in the lead.

The

"By ginger"-Bromley coaxingly made his way to the black's head, picked up the bridlereins, and tossed off the lariat,—“you and that hoss of yours are sure a winnin' team!"

And a winning team they were, too; Houston, alert, sturdy, brown-faced, blue-eyed, and easy in the saddle, and the trim-built sorrel with the points of a racer, whose silky coat, so much the color of rusty gold, had given him his name, "Rusty," well known to horsemen along a big strip of the Rio Grande. Houston laughed, coiled his rope, and all hands rode for the low hill where the chase had started. Bromley, tall, lean, dark, free of speech—a young broncho-buster-was doing all the talk

ing as the party loped up to a swarthy, blackeyed Mexican sitting on a rock, idly swishing his quirt.

"Pablo, you 're in luck that there was one real hoss in the outfit." Bromley chuckled, turned over the bridle-reins, then went on, "If there had n't been, that almost good nag of yours would 've splashed across the Rio Grande before sundown."

Pablo resented the jocular remarks and showed it by frowning brows. "Nothin' here as fast!" he growled, swinging into the saddle.

Bromley snorted. "Pablo, you make me snicker. He's just about fast enough to run his nose in a feed of oats. I'll admit he 's a little faster than the average cayuse, with a leg on each corner, and head, tail, and teeth; but he ain't in Rusty's class at all. I'd be willin' to bet a forty-pound, full-rigged saddle against a collar-button the sorrel could run him off his feet in a quarter-mile dash."

"Pooh!" Pablo sniffed; "all talk!"

"Yuh think so?" Bromley glanced at the sun, now well down in the heavens, winked at Houston, then again turned to Pablo. "Well, what's the matter with makin' sure? We've got a good chance before startin' for the ranch, and the hosses ain't tired. What do yuh say to a race?"

Pablo jumped at the idea, for he felt sure as to the outcome. Rusty had overtaken his horse, but he was certain the black had not done its best. "All right," he said, and looked at Houston's smiling, freckled face, and into his clear blue eyes that were taking in the scene. "What you say? All ready, Señor ?"

horse into a run, waved his hat in the air, and yelled, "Come on!" With his eye he measured off a quarter-mile, then appointed starters and judges and told Houston and Pablo to get ready.

Houston rode back of the starters, but beyond shortening his stirrup-straps a trifle, did nothing to prepare for the race. Pablo, however, prepared enough for two, because he intended to win if it were possible. First, he took off the heavy stocksaddle, mounted bareback, and, as the fast-. setting sun shone on his brown face, announced, "I'm ready!" Time and again he tried to jockey Houston into a bad start, only to be neatly blocked by the alert young Texan, who was always on time.

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"A SWARTHY MEXICAN, SETTING ON A ROCK"

At last Houston yawned, purposely, glanced toward the sun, now partly hidden behind the hills, then drawled, "I say, Pablo. it's gettin' late. Go ahead! I'll catch you."

The black was off like an arrow, with a good fifty-foot lead, Rusty bounded into his stride, and the race was on. Before the first two hundred yards had been covered, Pablo looked back over his shoulder and immediately started to use quirt and spur. Still, he did not draw away from that racing red streak behind. Another hundred yards, and

"Sure! I'll go you a quarter; that won't Rusty's nose was at the black's flanks. The tire 'em much."

Houston's words made Pablo smile, for a quarter-mile was exactly the distance he wanted.

Bromley immediately took charge of the whole affair. Looking over the flat, he picked out a fairly clear, hard, level strip, spurred his

next hundred, and Pablo could see a khaki-clad back, and pounding hoofs that appeared to scarcely touch the ground. And as they flashed by the judges, with Houston and the sorrel romping in as the winner, Pablo knew his black was greatly outmatched.

Houston was extremely gracious when the

two horses stopped side by side, some distance out on the flat, for he was not the kind to rub it into a loser.

"That's a mighty good hoss you 've got there, Pablo," he said, in his soft-spoken, southwestern drawl, taking in the black's heaving sides.

Pablo showed all over that he was a poor loser, and grunted something that Houston did not hear as they turned and made for the starting-line.

But every one was not so magnanimous as Houston, for when the racers came up, Bromley greeted Pablo with a good-natured poke in the ribs, quickly followed by a laughing, "What yuh think now? Huh?"

Pablo glared at Bromley before he shot back, "He is a little faster than my horse, but I know of one that can leave him far behind."

"Haw-Haw-Haw! Pablo, you make me feel coltish," and Bromley once more prodded the Mexican's ribs.

"Cut it out!" Pablo now lost his temper entirely, brushed Bromley's hand aside savagely, and, while speaking English, unconsciously used the pompous style of his mother tongue. "You give me the great pain. You have altogether too much freshness. Rusty horse is slower than a hobbled cow alongside one I know. It is I who will laugh, should the two ever be brought together!"

The

"Whew-w-w!" At Bromley's drawn out exclamation, Pablo's black eyes flashed and both hands clenched. "Where is this wonderful old plug you 're talking about?" Bromley went on, easily. "Can he beat the black?"

"He has beaten everything that has ever been matched against him, and they were the best horses of my country."

Bromley beamed, for an idea had suddenly formed in his mind. "I say, Pablo," he broke out, "you 're all right after all, and I'll stop my funny business. I ain't joshing now. Why can't we get these hosses together?"

All hands formed into a circular group before Pablo replied, "That is what I'd like to do."

Bromley looked at Houston. "What do you say, lad?"

Houston nodded. Then he suddenly held up his hand. "Hold on a second. I don't mind running Rusty a quarter or a half, but no long distance. And remember this, no betting-no betting!"

Pablo's lip curled. "Already backing down?" "Don't you ever believe it!" Without waiting for a reply Houston went on, "There are

a whole lot of people like you that think a person can't get fun out of anything or be a sportsman without betting. That's where you 're wrong. I figure the real sportsman is the one that goes into anything with the idea of winning, not how much will be made out of it. If your man's got the sand to run his hoss under those conditions, trot him along."

Bromley looked rather taken aback and started to speak, but checked himself as Houston's hand went up again, this time with, "Rusty's my hoss, Jack."

The conditions had n't struck Pablo as very good either, for he knew that his countrymen would back their choice to the limit if a race could be arranged. He would jeer the young gringo into different terms and sneered, "Piker!" Then he flashed his even, white teeth and laughed. Bromley looked glum, but said nothing.

I

"How does this strike you?" Houston resumed, as he lazily lounged over his saddlehorn. "What's the matter with making this a race between the fastest hoss in Mexico and the best little hoss in the United States? won't say mine is the fastest, but I can say I think he's the best. If you beat 'im, you'll know that wonder of yours has been running." "I'll bet you everything I own that—"

"You won't bet me a single centavo," Houston broke in, straightening up and making ready to ride off. "If you want to show that you are a real sportsman, trot your hoss around. I'll be on the job at any time."

"Bueno," was the only word that left Pablo's lips, but the uppermost thought in his mind was, "After the race, these Americanos will not feel so stuck up." Hurriedly resaddling, he started for the Rio Grande, while Houston and the others rode to the Page ranch, thinking Pablo was only talking.

Two days later, at sundown, Pablo turned his horse into one of Page's corrals and immediately found Houston. "Be ready a week from to-day for a half-mile dash," he said, his black eyes dancing. "Don Juan and 'Silver Plume' are on the way here now. They will travel much slower than I, to have the horse in the best condition possible. Don Juan said it was fair, your country against mine. He also must be what you call a sportsman, for he has told my people there must be no betting."

At no time had Houston thought Rusty would ever be matched against the famous Silver Plume, whose wonderful speed made him the pride of every Mexican. Bromley was in his element, and sent word to the nearby towns and ranches for everybody to be on

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