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"There!" said the girl, "now we shall do well enough till dinner-time. I'm going into the village. Anybody want to come?" Priscilla jumped up. "I do. Unless Trudy wants to, more than I do."

Gertrude shook her head. "I'm going to put up tomatoes," she said, "the rest of the ripe ones."

"Don't you want help?"

"Not a bit. Tomatoes are no work at all." Elliott dashed upstairs. In a whirl of excitement she pinned on her hat and counted her money. No matter how much it cost, she meant to say all that she wanted to.

Her cheeks were pink and her dimples hard at work playing hide-and-seek with their own shadows when she cranked the little car. Everything would come right now; it could n't fail to come right. Priscilla hopped into the seat beside her and they sped away.

"I have cabled Father," Elliott announced at dinner, with the prettiest imaginable little air of importance and confidence. "I have cabled Father to find out all he can about Pete and to let us know at once. Perhaps we shall hear something to-morrow."

But the next day passed, and the next, and the day after that, and still no cable reply.

It was very bewildering. At first, Elliott jumped every time the telephone rang and took down the receiver with quickened pulses. No matter what her brain said, her heart told her Father would send good news. She could n't associate him with thoughts of ill news.

But when long days and longer nights dragged themselves by and no word at all came from overseas, the girl found out what a big, empty place the world may become, even while it is chock-full of people, and what three thousand miles of water really means. She thought she had known before, but she had n't. As long as letters traveled back and forth-irregularly timed it might be, but continuously—she still kept the familiar sense of Father, out of sight, but there, as he had always been, most dependably there. Now, for the first time in her life, she had called to him and he had not answered. There might be reasons to explain why he had n't answered-good, reassuring reasons, if you only knew them. He might be temporarily in a region out of touch with cables; the service might have dropped a link somewhere-you could imagine many explanations. But it was easier to imagine other things. And since he did n't answer, she could n't get away from a horrible, paralyzing sense that he was n't there.

It did n't do any good to try to run from that sensation. There was nowhere to run to. It blocked every avenue of thought, a sinister shape of dread. The only help was in keeping very, very busy. And even then you could n't stop your thoughts traveling, traveling, traveling along those fearful paths.

At last Elliott knew how the others felt about Pete. She had thought she understood that and felt it, too, but now she found that she had n't. It makes all the difference in the world, she discovered, whether you stand inside or out of a trouble. The heart that had ached so sympathetically for Bruce knew its first stab of loss and recoiled. The others recognized the difference; or was it only that Elliott herself had eyes to see what she had been blind to before? No one said anything. In little unconscious, lovable ways they made it clear that now she was one with them.

"Perhaps we would better send for them to come home from Camp Devens," Father Bob suggested one day. He threw out this remark at the supper-table, which would seem to address it to the family at large, but he looked straight at Elliott.

"Oh no," she cried, "don't send for them!" But she could n't keep a flash of joy out of her eyes.

"Sure you 're not getting tired?" "Certain sure."

It disappointed her the least little bit that Uncle Bob let the suggestion drop so readily. And she was disappointed at her own disappointment. "Can't you carry on at all?" she demanded of herself scornfully. "It was all your own doing, you know." But how she did long at times for Aunt Jessica!

Of course, Elliott could n't cry, however much she might wish to, with the family all taking their cues from her mood. She said so fiercely to every lump that rose in her throat. She could n't indulge herself at all adequately in the luxury of being miserable; she could n't even let herself feel half as scared as she wanted to, because, if she did,just once, she could n't keep control of herself; and if she lost control of herself, there was no telling where she might end-certainly in no state that would be of any use to the family. No, for their sake, she must sit tight on the lid of her grief and fear and anxiety. But there were hours when the cover lifted a little. No girl, not the bravest, could avoid such altogether. Elliott did n't think herself brave, not a bit. She knew merely that the thing she had to do could n't be done if there were many such hours.

Bruce heard somebody sobbing one day up in the hay-loft. The sound did n't carry far,it was controlled, suppressed,—but Bruce had gone up the ladder for something or other, and thinking Priscilla was in trouble, he kept on. The girl crying, face down, in the hay was n't Priscilla. Very softly Bruce started to tiptoe away, but the rustling of the hay under his feet revealed him.

"I did n't mean-any one should-find me." "Shall I go away?"

She shook her head.

"I can't stand it," she wailed. "I simply can't stand it!" And she sobbed as though her heart would break.

Bruce sat down beside the girl on the hay and patted the hand nearest him. He did n't know anything else to do. Her fingers closed on his convulsively.

"I'm an awful old cry-baby," she choked at last. "I'll behave myself-in a minute." "No, cry away," said Bruce. "A girl has to cry sometimes."

"I

After a while the racking sobs spent themselves. "There!" she said, sitting up. never thought I'd let a boy see me cry. Now I must go in and help Trudy get supper." She dabbed at her eyes with a wet little wad of linen.

Bruce plucked a clean handkerchief from his pocket and tucked it into her fingers. "Yours does n't seem quite big enough for the job."

She took it gratefully. She had never thought of a boy as a very comforting person, but Bruce was. "Oh Bruce, you know."

"Yes, I know."

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A smile curved his firm lips, but the steady gray eyes were tender. "I should n't call you a coward."

She shook herself and stood up. "Bruce, you 're a darling! Now will you please go and see if the coast is clear, so I can slide upstairs without being seen? I must wash up before supper."

"I'd get supper," he said, "if I did n't have to milk to-night. I promised Henry."

She shook her head positively. "I'll let you do lots of things, Bruce, but I won't let you get supper for me, not with all the other things you have to do."

"Oh, all right. I dare you to jump off the hay."

"Down there?

Take you!" she cried, and with the word sprang into the air.

Beside her the boy leaped, too. They landed lightly on the fragrant mass in the bay of the barn.

"Oh," she cried, “it 's like flying, is n't it! Why was n't I brought up on a farm?" There was a little choke still left in her voice and her smile was a trifle unsteady, but her words were ready enough. In the door

way she turned and waved to the boy and then went on, her head held high, slender and straight and gallant, into the house.

CHAPTER XII

HOME-LOVING HEARTS

MOTHER JESS and Laura were coming home. Perhaps Father Bob had dropped a hint that their presence was needed in the white house at the end of the road; perhaps, on the other hand, they were just ready to come. Elliott never knew for certain.

Father Bob met the train, while all the Cameron boys and girls flew around making ready at home. The plan had developed on the tacit understanding that, since they all wanted to, it was fairer for none of them to go to the station.

Priscilla and Prince were out watching. "They're coming!" she squealed, skipping back into the house. "Trudy, Elliott, everybody, they're coming!" And she was out

For a sophisticated girl she was singularly again, darting in long swallowlike swoops naïve, in spots.

He watched her digest the idea, sitting up on the hay, her chin cupped in her two hands, straws in her hair. Her eyes were swollen and her nose red and his handkerchief was now almost as wet as her own. "I thought I was an awful coward," she said.

down the hill. From every direction came Camerons, running; from house, barn, garden, young heads moved swiftly toward the little car chug-chugging up the hill.

They swarmed over it, not giving it time to stop, jumping on the running-board, riding on the hood, almost embracing the car itself in

the joy of their welcome. Elliott hung back. The others had the first right. After their turns

Without a word Aunt Jessica took the girl into her arms and held her tight. In that strong tender clasp all the stinging ache went out of Elliott's hurt. She was n't frightened any longer or bewildered or bitter; she did n't know why she was n't, but she was n't. She felt just as if somehow or other, however they might turn out, things were going to be right.

She had this feeling so strongly that she forgot all about dreading to meet Laura-for she had dreaded to meet Laura, she was so sorry for her and kissed her quite naturally. Laura kissed Elliott in return and said, "Wait till I get you upstairs!" as though she meant business, and smiled just as usual. Her face was a trifle pale, but her eyes were bright, and the clear steady glow in them reminded Elliott for the first time of the light in Aunt Jessica's eyes. She had n't remembered ever seeing Laura's eyes look just like that. How much did Laura know, Elliott wondered? She would n't look so, would she, if she had heard about Pete? But strangely enough, Elliott did n't fear her finding out or feel nervous lest she might have to tell her. And after all, as soon as they got upstairs, it came out that Laura did know about Pete, for she said, "I'm glad, oh, so glad, that wherever Pete is now, he got across and had a chance really to do something in this fight! If you had seen what I have seen this last week, Elliott-"

The shining look in Laura's face fascinated Elliott.

All at once she felt her own words come as simply and easily as Laura's. "But will that be enough, Laura-always?"

"No," said Laura, "not always. But I shall always be proud and glad, even if I do have to miss him all my life. And, of course, I can't help feeling that we may hear good news yet. Now-Oh you blessed, blessed girl!"

And the two clung together in a long, close embrace that said many things to both of them, but not a word out loud.

How good it seemed to have Mother Jess and Laura in the house! Every one went about with a hopeful face, though, after all, not an inch had the veil of silence lifted that hung between the Cameron' Farm and the world overseas. Every one, Elliott suspected, shared the feeling she had known-the certainty that all would be well now Mother Jess was home. It was n't anything in particular that she said or did that contributed to this

impression. Just to see Mother Jess's face in a room, to touch her hand now and then, to hear her voice, merely to know she was in the house, seemed enough to give it to you.

They all had so much to say to one another. The returned travelers must tell of Sidney, and the Camerons who had stayed at home had tales of how they had “carried on” in the others' absence. Tongues were very busy, but no one forgot those who were n't there, not for a minute. The sense of them lived underneath all the confidences. There were confidences en masse, so to speak, and confidences à deux. Priscilla chattered away into her mother's ear without once stopping to catch breath, and Bruce had his own quiet report to make. Perhaps Bruce and Priscilla and the rest said more than Elliott heard, for when Aunt Jessica bade her good night she rested a hand lightly on the girl's shoulder. "You dear, brave little woman!" she said. "All the soldiers are n't in camp or over the seas."

Elliott put the words away in her memory. They made her feel like a man who has just been decorated by his general.

She felt so comforted and quiet, so free from nervousness, that not even the telephone bell could make her jump. It tinkled almost continuously, too. That was because all the next day the neighbors who did n't come in person were calling up to inquire for the returned travelers. Elliott quite lost the expectation that every time the telephone buzzed it meant a possible message for her.

She had lost it so completely that when, as they were on the point of sitting down to supper, Laura said, "There 's the 'phone again, and my hands are full," Elliott remarked, "I'll see who it is," and took down the receiver without the thought of a cable in her head.

"This is Elliott Cameron speaking. Yes, yes, Elliott Cameron. All ready. Yes—yes. Elliott Cameron. All ready." A tremor crept into the girl's voice. "I did n't get that. Just received my message? Yes, go on. Repeat, please. Wait a minute till I call some one."

She wheeled from the instrument, her face alight. "Where's Bruce? Please, somebody, call-Oh, here you are!" She thrust the receiver into his hands. "Make them repeat the message to you. It 's from Father. Pete was a prisoner. He 's escaped and got back to our lines!"

Then she slipped into Aunt Jessica's waiting arms.

Supper? Who cared about supper? The Camerons forgot it. When they remembered,

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the steaming-hot creamed potatoes were cold and the salad was wilted, but that made no difference. They were too excited to know what they were eating.

To make assurance trebly sure, there were more messages. Bob cabled of Pete's escape through the Hun lines and the Government wired from Washington. The Camerons' happiness spilled over into blithe exuberance. They laughed and danced and sang for very joy. Priscilla jigged all over the house like an excited brown leaf in a breeze. Not one of them, unless it were Father Bob, Mother Jess and Laura, could keep still. Laura went about like a person in a trance, with a strange, happy quietness in her ordinarily energetic movements and a brightness that dazzled you in her face. There was 110 boisterousness in any one's rejoicing, only a gentleness of gaiety that was very wonderful to see and feel.

As for Elliott, she felt as though she had come out from underneath a great dark cloud into a place where she could never be anything but good and happy forever. She had been coming out ever since Aunt Jessica

most dangerous stage, and inasmuch as Stannard's was an early train, going to bed was the only sensible thing to do. So they did it. What was more remarkable, the last sleepy Cameron straggled down to the breakfasttable before the little car ran up to the door to take Stannard away. They were really

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THE MORNING WHEN BRUCE WENT AWAY (SEE NEXT PAGE)

reached home, but she had n't come out the same as she went in. The Elliott Aunt Jessica and Laura had left in charge when they went to Camp Devens seemed very, very far away from the Elliott whose joy was like wings that fairly lifted her feet off the ground.

"I suppose," Mother Jess said at last, "we shall have to go to bed, if we are to get Stannard off in the morning."

Going to bed is n't a very exciting thing to do when you are so happy you feel as though you might burst with joy, but by that time the Camerons had managed to work out of the

sorry to see him go, and he acted as though he were just as sorry, which would seem to indicate that he, too, had changed in the course of the summer. He looked much like the long, lazy Stannard who had rebelled against a vacation on a farm, but his carriage was better. and his figure sturdier and his hands were n't half so white and gentlemanlike. Underneath his lazy ease was a hint of something to depend on in an emergency. Perhaps even

his laziness was n't so ingrained as it used to be.

They all went out on the veranda, and waved good-by as long as the car was in sight.

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"Are n't you sorry you 're not going too?" Bruce asked Elliott.

"Oh, no. I would n't go for anything!"

"For a girl who did n't want to come up here at all," he said softly, "you 're doing pretty well. Decided to make the best of us, did n't you?"

She looked at him indignantly. "Indeed, I did n't. I would n't do such a thing! Why, I just love it here!"

Then she saw the twinkle in his eye. "You old tease!" she said.

"I"m going away myself, next week, S. A. T. C. I can't get any nearer France than that, it seems, just yet. Father Bob says he can manage all right this winter, and he has a notion of something new that may turn up next spring. He said, 'Go,' and so does Mother Jess. So I'm going."

Elliott stole a quick glance at the firm, clearcut face chiseled already in lines of purpose and power.

"I'm glad," she said, "but we shall-miss you."

"Shall you miss me?"

"Yes."

"I'd hate to think that you would n't." Elliott always remembered the morning three days later when Bruce went away. How blue the sky was, how clear the sunshine, how glorious the autumn pageant of the hills! Be

side the gate a young maple burned like a shaft of flame. True, Bruce was only going to school now, but there was France in the background, a beckoning possibility, with all that it meant of triumph and heroism and pain. That idea of France and the fiery splendor of the hills seemed to invest Bruce's strong young figure with a kind of glory that tightened the girl's throat as she waved good-by from the veranda. She was glad Bruce was going, even if her throat did ache. Aches like that seemed far less important than they used to. She waved with a thrill of mingled pride and joy-a shy, eager sense of how big and wonderful and happy a thing it was to be a girl. With a last wave to Bruce turning the curve of the road, Mother Jess stepped back into the house. "Come girls," she said. "I feel like getting very busy, don't you?"

People

Elliott followed her contentedly. might go, but she did n't wish to, not while Father was on the other side of the ocean. It made her laugh to think that she had ever wanted to. That laugh of pure mirth and happiness proved the completeness of Elliott Cameron's change of heart.

"What is the joke?" Laura asked, smiling at the radiant charm of the dainty figure enveloping itself in a blue apron.

"Oh," said Elliott lightly, "I was thinking that I used to be a queer girl."

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