"Red's in pretty bad shape again. The voyage has been hard on him. I
hope he'll be well enough to get his discharge when we land. I'll take
him home to Middleville."

"Middleville!" echoed Lane, musingly. "Home!... Blair, does it hit
you--kind of queer? Do you long, yet dread to get home?"

Maynard had no reply for that query, but his look was expressive.

"I've not heard from Helen for over a year," went on Lane, more as if
speaking to himself.

"My God, Dare!" exclaimed his companion, with sudden fire. "Are you
still thinking of her?"

"We--we are engaged," returned Lane, slowly. "At least we _were_. But
I've had no word that she----"

"Dare, your childlike faith is due for a jar," interrupted his
comrade, with bitter scorn. "Come down to earth. You're a crippled
soldier--coming home--and damn lucky at that."

"Blair, what do you know--that I do not know? For long I've suspected
you're wise to--to things at home. You know I haven't heard much in
all these long months. My mother wrote but seldom. Lorna, my kid
sister, forgot me, I guess.... Helen always was a poor correspondent.
Dal answered my letters, but she never _told_ me anything about home.
When we first got to France I heard often from Margie Henderson and
Mel Iden--crazy kind of letters--love-sick over soldiers.... But
nothing for a long time now."