“Yes,” he answered, laughing. “We are going to say to the people, ‘Eat, drink and be wise.’” “Tell me,” he said. There was a note of fierce exultation in his voice. “I’ll promise never to speak of it again. If I had been a free man, could I have won you?”!

“I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition. Quite illuminating,” remarked Mr. Simson. “We ought to be comrades,” answered Joan, with a smile. “I, too, am trying to help the People.”

Her father had wished her to go. Arthur’s death had stirred in him the old Puritan blood with its record of long battle for liberty of conscience. If war claimed to be master of a man’s soul, then the new warfare must be against war. He remembered the saying of a Frenchwoman who had been through the Franco-Prussian war. Joan, on her return from Paris some years before, had told him of her, repeating her words: “But, of course, it would not do to tell the truth,” the old lady had said, “or we should have our children growing up to hate war.” “It isn’t going to be the Daily This and the Daily That and the Weekly the Other all combined to down me. I’m going to tell the people that it’s Carleton and only Carleton—Carleton here, Carleton there, Carleton everywhere, against them. I’m going to drag him out into the open and make him put up his own fists.” Joan was making herself a cup of tea when there came a tap at the door. It was Mrs. Phillips.