their fellows free this tribute of love is erected."

And there followed the honor-roll of Warren's fallen.

Millicent's sensitive lips quivered a little. Her ready imagination
pictured them coming to this very square, perhaps,--the men of Warren.
Boys from the hill farms, men from the village shops, the blacksmith
who had worked in the light of yonder old forge, the carpenter who was
father to the one now leisurely hammering a yellow L upon that
weather-stained house,--she saw them all. What had led them? What call
had sounded in their ears that they should leave their ploughshares in
the furrows, their tills, their anvils, and their benches? What better
thing had stirred with the primeval instinct for fight, with the
unquenchable, restless longing for adventure, to send them forth? She
read the words again--"that their country might be whole and their
fellows free."

She moved impatiently. For now an old shadowy theory of hers--an
inheritance from the theories of the recluse, her father--stirred from
a long-drugged quiet: a theory that there was a disintegrating
unpatriotism in the untouched, charmed life of riches she and her
fellows sought. She felt the disturbing conviction that those common
men--she could almost hear their blundering speech, see their uncouth
yawns at the sights and sounds of beauty on which she fed her
soul--that those men had wells of life within them purer, sweeter,
than she. She averted her eyes from the monument.

"Honey!" called a voice, full-throated and loving--"honey, where are you?"

There was a play-tent on the little patch of yard before the brown