he walked away as fast as he could from the crowded little city, in the outskirts of which he had been in training for so many weeks.
Alone on a high grassy bank, above the rippling waters of the lake, squaring his shoulders a little first, in preparation for the stab which he felt sure the innocent envelope contained, he finally drew forth Reba's note. He opened it. For five long minutes he stood motionless staring down at the page before him. The only thing that stirred about him was the soft wide brim of his hat, and a corner of the note itself, as the breeze played with it. At the end of the five minutes the hand that held the note dropped to the soldier's side, and the eyes that had gazed so intently at Reba's summons sought with the same fixed attention the faraway green hills of Vermont.
But they did not see those hills. They saw only that row of Please come's. There were three of them, and each one had gone through Nathan like a sweet sharp caress. Each one had been like that last kiss of Rebecca's in the station—only not so shy, not so fleeting and soon over. "Please come," she had said three times over. And she had underlined the last "Please come." There was entreaty in that. Surely she would not underline her words out of pity. Oh, did she at last a little want him, who had always wanted her so much?
There was little sleep for the soldier that night, lying in his cot beneath his army blanket. He was not used to so many good things happening to him all in one week. The commission that had been awarded him after the long weeks of intensive training, and nerve-racking uncertainty, had kept him awake the
