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 XXVIII

our Branton Hills’ “Post,” had so wrought up our ordinarily happy, laughing Sarah, who, with Paul abroad, was back, living again with old Tom Young, that Sarah, sitting on a low stool by old Tom’s rocking chair was so still that Tom put down his “Post,” saying:—

“ all run out, kid?”

But Sarah had an odd, thoughtful look. Sarah’s bosom was rising and falling abnormally; but, finally, looking quickly up at old Tom, Sarah said:—

“Daddy, I want to go to war.”

“Do what?” If Sarah had said anything about jumping out of a balloon, or of buying a gorilla to play with, Tom Young wouldn’t know any such astounding doubt as brought his rocking chair to a quick standstill.

“War? What kind of talk is this? A girl going to war? What for? How? Say!! Who put this crazy stunt into your brain, anyway?”

As you know, Sarah was not only charming in ways, but also in build; and, with that glorious crown of brownish-gold hair, that always smiling