drunk. The doctor had laughed over this story; doctors are
notoriously inhuman. The professor had laughed also, but the
possible picture of him-self squirming helplessly before a casually
interested public had terrors which no enemies' shrapnel had ever
been able to inspire.

Well, thank heaven it hadn't happened yet! The professor confided
his satisfaction to an inquisitive squirrel which swung, bright
eyed, from a branch which swept the window, and, sitting up,
prepared to take stock of the furnishings of his room. A grim smile
signalled his discovery that there were no furnishings to take stock
of. Save for his camp bed, an affair of stout canvas stretched
between crossed legs, the room was beautifully bare. Not a chair,
not a wash-stand, not a table cumbered it--unless a round, flat tree
stump, which looked as if it might have grown up through the floor,
was intended for both washstand and table. It had served the latter
purpose at any rate as upon it rested the candle-stick containing
the solitary candle by which he had got himself to bed.

"Single room, without bath," murmured the professor. "Oh, if my Aunt
Caroline could see me now!"

Oddly enough, something in the thought of Aunt Caroline seemed to
have a reconciling effect upon Aunt Caroline's nephew. He lay back
upon his one thin pillow and reviewed his position with surprising
fortitude. After all, Aunt Caroline couldn't see him--and that was
something. Besides, it had been an adventure. It was surprising how
he had come to look for adventures since that day, five years ago,
when the grim adventure of war had called him from the peace-filled
beginnings of what he had looked forward to as a life of scholarly