talking and moving about, noisily, good-humored and happy. There was a
flourish of violins, and then the orchestra swung into a rampant march
that pranced like uncurbed cavalry; it stirred the blood of old men with
militant bugle calls and blast of horns; it might have heralded the
chariot of a flamboyant war god rioting out of sunrise, plumed with youth.
Some quite young men on the veranda made as if they were restive horses
champing at the bit and heading a procession, and, from a group near by,
loud laughter pealed.

John Harkless lifted to his face the hand that had held hers; there was
the faint perfume of her glove. He kissed his own hand. Then he put that
hand and the other to his forehead, and sank into her chair.

"Let me get back," he said. "Let me get back to Plattville, where I
belong."

Tom Meredith came calling him. "Harkless? John Harkless?"

"Here I am, Tom."

"Come along, boy. What on earth are you doing out here all alone? I
thought you were with--I thought some people were with you. You're bored
to death, I know; but come along and be bored some more, because I
promised to bring you in for supper. Then we'll go home. They've saved a
place for you by Miss Hinsdale."

"Very well, lad," answered Harkless, and put his hand on the other's
shoulder. "Thank you."

The next day he could not leave his bed; his wounds were feverish and his