He caught the hand that wielded the handkerchief and kissed it
gratefully, reverently.

"God bless your dear, kind heart!" he murmured. "I had thought nobody
could possibly care--that much. So few people--have any interest in
the--unhappiness of others." He essayed a twisted smile. "I'm not
usually this weak," he continued, apologetically. "I never knew until
to-night that I could be such a lubberly big baby, but, then, I wasn't
set for this blow. This afternoon, life executed an about face for
me--and the dogs got me started after I'd promised myself--" He
choked again on the last word.

She patted his shoulder in comradely fashion.

"Buck up, Don Mike!" she pleaded. "Tears from such men as you are
signs of strength, not weakness. And remember--life has a habit of
obeying commanding men. It may execute another about face for you."

"I've lost everything that made life livable," he protested.

"Ah! No, no! You must not say that. Think of that cheerful warrior
who, in defeat, remarked, 'All is lost save honor.'" And she touched
the pale-blue star-sprinkled ribbon on his left breast.

He smiled again, the twisted smile.

"That doesn't amount to a row of pins in civil life." Something of
that sense of bitter disillusionment, of blasted idealism, which is the
immediate aftermath of war, had crept into his voice. "The only thrill