it, to put flowers in front of it, and to say their little prayers for
the safety of men in battle.

It was Cousin Derry who dropped in now at the evening hour. He was a
famous story-teller, and they always welcomed him uproariously.

Margaret Morgan, perhaps better than any other, knew in those days what
was in Derry's heart. She knew the things against which he had
struggled, and she had rebelled hotly, "Why should he be sacrificed?"
she had asked her husband more than once during the three years which
had preceded America's entrance into the war. "He wants to be over
there driving an ambulance--doing his bit. Aunt Edith always idealized
the General, and Derry is paying the price."

"Most women idealize the men they love, honey-girl." Winston Morgan
was from the South, and he drew upon its store of picturesque
endearments to express his joy and pride in his own Peggy. "And if
they didn't where should we be?"

She had leaned her head against him. "I don't need to idealize you,"
she had said, comfortably, "but the General is different. Aunt Edith
made Derry live his father's life, not his own, and it has moulded him
into something less than he might have been if he had been allowed more
initiative."

Winston had shaken his head. "Discipline is a mighty good thing in the
Army, Peggy, and it's a mighty good thing in life. Derry Drake is as
hard as steel, and as finely tempered. If he ever does break loose,
he'll be all the more dynamic for having held himself back."