I saw him again the day he left. He came out of his house with a small
Airedale pup which had been the merry playmate of Alette and Yvonne.
He stood on the veranda holding the dog in his arms. Strangers were
moving into the house and their boxes stood on the floor. I went over
to say good-bye.

"I will not come back," he said simply; "it will be a long fight; we
knew it would come, but we did not know when. If I can but find wife
and children--but the Germans--they are devils--Boches--no one knows
them as we do!"

He stood irresolute a moment, then handed me the dog and went quickly
down the steps.

"It is for France!" he said.

I sat on the veranda railing and watched him go. The Airedale blinded
his eyes looking after him, then looked at me, plainly asking for an
explanation. But I had to tell him that I knew no more about it than
he did. Then I tried to comfort him by telling him that many little
dogs were much worse off than he, for they had lost their people and
their good homes as well, and he still had his comfortable home and
his good meals. But it was neither meals nor bed that his faithful
little heart craved, and for many weeks a lonely little Airedale on
Chestnut Street searched diligently for his merry little playmates and
his kind master, but he found them not.

There was still a certain unreality about it all. Sometimes it has
been said that the men who went first went for adventure. Perhaps they
did, but it does not matter--they have since proved of what sort of