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Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Data Structures 3e (Gaddis and Muganda)
Chapter 6 A First Look at Classes

6.1 Multiple Choice Questions

1) One or more objects may be created from a(n):

A) field
B) class
C) method
D) instance
Answer: B

2) Class objects normally have ________ that perform useful operations on their data, but primitive
variables do not.
A) fields
B) instances
C) methods
D) relationships
Answer: C

3) In the cookie cutter metaphor, think of the ________ as a cookie cutter and ________ as the cookies.
A) object; classes
B) class; objects
C) class; fields
D) attribute; methods
Answer: B

4) Which of the following are classes from the Java API?

A) Scanner
B) Random
C) PrintWriter
D) All of the above
Answer: D

5) When you are working with a ________, you are using a storage location that holds a piece of data.
A) primitive variable
B) reference variable
C) numeric literal
D) binary number
Answer: A

6) What is stored by a reference variable?

A) A binary encoded decimal
B) A memory address
C) An object
D) A string
Answer: B

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Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
7) Most programming languages that are in use today are:
A) procedural
B) logic
C) object-oriented
D) functional
Answer: C

8) Java allows you to create objects of this class in the same way you would create primitive variables.
A) Random
B) String
C) PrintWriter
D) Scanner
Answer: B

9) A UML diagram does not contain:

A) the class name
B) the method names
C) the field names
D) object names
Answer: D

10) Data hiding, which means that critical data stored inside the object is protected from code outside the
object, is accomplished in Java by:
A) using the public access specifier on the class methods
B) using the private access specifier on the class methods
C) using the private access specifier on the class definition
D) using the private access specifier on the class fields
Answer: D

11) For the following code, which statement is NOT true?

public class Sphere

{
private double radius;
public double x;
private double y;
private double z;
}
A) x is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.
B) radius is not available to code written outside the Circle class.
C) radius, x, y, and z are called members of the Circle class.
D) z is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.
Answer: D

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Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
12) You should not define a class field that is dependent upon the values of other class fields:
A) in order to avoid having stale data
B) because it is redundant
C) because it should be defined in another class
D) in order to keep it current
Answer: A

13) What does the following UML diagram entry mean?

+ setHeight(h : double) : void

A) this is a public attribute named Height and is a double data type
B) this is a private method with no parameters and returns a double data type
C) this is a private attribute named Height and is a double data type
D) this is a public method with a parameter of data type double and does not return a value
Answer: D

14) Methods that operate on an object's fields are called:

A) instance variables
B) instance methods
C) public methods
D) private methods
Answer: B

15) The scope of a private instance field is:

A) the instance methods of the same class
B) inside the class, but not inside any method
C) inside the parentheses of a method header
D) the method in which they are defined
Answer: A

16) A constructor:
A) always accepts two arguments
B) has return type of void
C) has the same name as the class
D) always has an access specifier of private
Answer: C

17) Which of the following statements will create a reference, str, to the String, "Hello, World"?
A) String str = "Hello, World";
B) string str = "Hello, World";
C) String str = new "Hello, World";
D) str = "Hello, World";
Answer: A

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18) Two or more methods in a class may have the same name as long as:
A) they have different return types
B) they have different parameter lists
C) they have different return types, but the same parameter list
D) you cannot have two methods with the same name
Answer: B

19) Given the following code, what will be the value of finalAmount when it is displayed?

public class Order

{
private int orderNum;
private double orderAmount;
private double orderDiscount;

public Order(int orderNumber, double orderAmt,

double orderDisc)
{
orderNum = orderNumber;
orderAmount = orderAmt;
orderDiscount = orderDisc;
}
public int getOrderAmount()
{
return orderAmount;
}
public int getOrderDisc()
{
return orderDisc;
}
}

public class CustomerOrder

{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
int ordNum = 1234;
double ordAmount = 580.00;
double discountPer = .1;
Order order;
double finalAmount = order.getOrderAmount() —
order.getOrderAmount() * order.getOrderDisc();
System.out.printf("Final order amount = $%,.2f\n",
finalAmount);
}
}
A) 528.00
B) 580.00
C) There is no value because the constructor has an error.
D) There is no value because the object order has not been created.
Answer: D

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20) A class specifies the ________ and ________ that a particular type of object has.
A) relationships; methods
B) fields; object names
C) fields; methods
D) relationships; object names
Answer: C

21) This refers to the combining of data and code into a single object.
A) Data hiding
B) Abstraction
C) Object
D) Encapsulation
Answer: D

22) Another term for an object of a class is:

A) access specifier
B) instance
C) member
D) method
Answer: B

23) In your textbook the general layout of a UML diagram is a box that is divided into three sections. The
top section has the ________; the middle section holds ________; the bottom section holds ________.
A) class name; attributes or fields; methods
B) class name; object name; methods
C) object name; attributes or fields; methods
D) object name; methods; attributes or fields
Answer: A

24) For the following code, which statement is NOT true?

public class Circle

{
private double radius;
public double x;
private double y;
}
A) x is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.
B) radius is not available to code written outside the Circle class.
C) radius, x, and y are called members of the Circle class.
D) y is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.
Answer: D

25) It is common practice in object-oriented programming to make all of a class's:

A) methods private
B) fields private
C) fields public
D) fields and methods public
Answer: B

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26) After the header, the body of the method appears inside a set of:
A) brackets, []
B) parentheses, ()
C) braces, {}
D) double quotes, ""
Answer: C

27) In UML diagrams, this symbol indicates that a member is private:

A) *
B) #
C) -
D) +
Answer: C

28) In UML diagrams, this symbol indicates that a member is public.

A) /
B) @
C) -
D) +
Answer: D

29) In a UML diagram to indicate the data type of a variable enter:

A) the variable name followed by the data type
B) the variable name followed by a colon and the data type
C) the class name followed by the variable name followed by the data type
D) the data type followed by the variable name
Answer: B

30) When an object is created, the attributes associated with the object are called:
A) instance fields
B) instance methods
C) fixed attributes
D) class instances
Answer: A

31) When an object is passed as an argument to a method, what is passed into the method's parameter
variable?
A) the class name
B) the object's memory address
C) the values for each field
D) the method names
Answer: B

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32) A constructor is a method that:
A) returns an object of the class.
B) never receives any arguments.
C) with the name ClassName.constructor.
D) performs initialization or setup operations.
Answer: D

33) The scope of a public instance field is:

A) only the class in which it is defined
B) inside the class, but not inside any method
C) inside the parentheses of a method header
D) the instance methods and methods outside the class
Answer: D

34) Which of the following statements will create a reference, str, to the string, "Hello, world"?

(1) String str = new String("Hello, world");

(2) String str = "Hello, world";
A) 1
B) 2
C) 1 and 2
D) neither 1 or 2
Answer: C

35) Overloading means multiple methods in the same class:

A) have the same name, but different return types
B) have different names, but the same parameter list
C) have the same name, but different parameter lists
D) perform the same function
Answer: C

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36) Given the following code, what will be the value of finalAmount when it is displayed?

public class Order

{
private int orderNum;
private double orderAmount;
private double orderDiscount;

public Order(int orderNumber, double orderAmt,

double orderDisc)
{
orderNum = orderNumber;
orderAmount = orderAmt;
orderDiscount = orderDisc;
}

public double finalOrderTotal()

{
return orderAmount - orderAmount *
orderDiscount;
}
}

public class CustomerOrder

{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
Order order;
int orderNumber = 1234;
double orderAmt = 580.00;
double orderDisc = .1;
order = new Order(orderNumber, orderAmt, orderDisc);
double finalAmount = order.finalOrderTotal();
System.out.printf("Final order amount = $%,.2f\n",
finalAmount);
}
}
A) 528.00
B) 580.00
C) 522.00
D) There is no value because the object order has not been created.
Answer: C

37) A class's responsibilities include:

A) the things a class is responsible for doing
B) the things a class is responsible for knowing
C) both A and B
D) neither A nor B
Answer: C

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38) Instance methods do not have this key word in their headers:
A) public
B) static
C) private
D) protected
Answer: B

39) Which of the following is NOT involved in finding the classes when developing an object-oriented
application?
A) Describe the problem domain.
B) Identify all the nouns.
C) Write the code.
D) Refine the list of nouns to include only those that are relevant to the problem.
Answer: C

40) This is a group of related classes.

A) archive
B) package
C) collection
D) attachment
Answer: B

41) Quite often you have to use this statement to make a group of classes available to a program.
A) import
B) use
C) link
D) assume
Answer: A

42) Look at the following statement.

import java.util.Scanner;

This is an example of
A) a wildcard import
B) an explicit import
C) unconditional import
D) conditional import
Answer: B

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43) Look at the following statement.

import java.util.*;

This is an example of:

A) a wildcard import
B) an explicit import
C) unconditional import
D) conditional import
Answer: A

44) The following package is automatically imported into all Java programs.
A) java.java
B) java.default
C) java.util
D) java.lang
Answer: D

6.2 True/False Questions

1) An object can store data.

Answer: TRUE

2) A class in not an object, but a description of an object.

Answer: TRUE

3) An access specifier indicates how the class may be accessed.

Answer: TRUE

4) A method that stores a value in a class's field or in some other way changes the value of a field is
known as a mutator method.
Answer: TRUE

5) Instance methods should be declared static.

Answer: FALSE

6) A constructor is a method that is automatically called when an object is created.

Answer: TRUE

7) Shadowing is the term used to describe where the field name is hidden by the name of a local or
parameter variable.
Answer: TRUE

8) The public access specifier for a field indicates that the attribute may not be accessed by statements
outside the class.
Answer: FALSE

9) A method that gets a value from a class's field but does not change it is known as a mutator method.
Answer: FALSE
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10) Instance methods do not have the key word static in their headers.
Answer: TRUE

11) The term "default constructor" is applied to the first constructor written by the author of a class.
Answer: FALSE

12) When a local variable in an instance method has the same name as an instance field, the instance field
hides the local variable.
Answer: FALSE

13) The term "no-arg constructor" is applied to any constructor that does not accept arguments.
Answer: TRUE

14) The java.lang package is automatically imported into all Java programs.
Answer: TRUE

11
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
the glimpse of burning eyes and lips that slightly trembled. He
placed his hand on her shoulder and drew her face towards his.

"Why," she said hesitatingly—"why do you want to kiss me?"

Montague smiled. "The eternal question, Vera. It has trapped more

men into proposals than all the wiles of a generation of fond
mothers."

"But you don't love me," she said, her hands pressed against the
lapels of his jacket in self-defense.

"On such a night as this," he said, "who could help but love you?"

"Dennis, please let me go—I mean it—I shall call for help."

His brow contracted with a sudden frown. "You come here," he said,
"at midnight—into a deserted conservatory … with me. Then,
because I do what you knew from the start I would do, you
suddenly decide to play 'Little Miss Prude from the Convent.'"

"I—I should not have come. I did not want to, Dennis."

His lips curved into a smile. "Then why did you?"

Her eyes pleaded with him not to prolong the scene, but he was
mad with the joy of seeing this sensitive woman, who had so long
kept him at a distance, caught in the meshes of his fascination, and
he held her in his arms, confident of his power to sway her at his
will.

"I fought against it, Dennis," she said quickly. "But—I had to come.
Oh, why force me to say such a thing. Can you not see how unfair
you are?"

She struggled to her feet, but he stood before her, barring the way
to the door.
His breath came faster. This was a charming surrender! It had
gracefulness, novelty, charm…. Only, something in her eyes warned
him to come no closer.

"I have admitted, Dennis Montague," she said breathlessly, "that I

came here because you fascinated me. It's true; you have always
fascinated me. But I tell you that down in my heart I loathe you,
detest you, for the coward that you are." Montague drew back as
though fired upon by a masked battery. "In all the years I have
known you," she went on furiously, as though fearing that her
courage would leave her before the finish, "you have done nothing
that was not selfish, mean, and cowardly—above everything else,
cowardly. Look at the girls you have known——" Montague
interrupted her with an impatient gesture, but she went on: "More
than a dozen I could name have given you the depth and the
sweetness of their first love, inspired by you, called forth by you. Do
you realize what a woman's heart is and what she gives with it? And
you—you are too cowardly to face marriage, too cowardly to love
with your own heart—too selfish to leave women's hearts alone."

Montague took a cigarette-case from his pocket. "May I smoke?" he

said coolly.

"You are a coward about your profession as well," she hurried on,
ignoring his interruption. "Your mother, I know, had great dreams for
you. She planned, worked, sacrificed for you. Yet you are too much
of a coward seriously to face competition with what you choose to
call 'the little legal minds of the city.'"

"And thirdly?" he said, lighting a cigarette.

"Yes, thirdly," she said desperately, although his easy nonchalance

was fast undermining her courage, "you are not in the army. Yet no
one could say that Dennis Montague is not fit. I can only presume,
like every one else, that you are afraid."
"And lastly?" He was still calm, although keener eyes than hers
would have noticed a dark, ominous flush under his eyes.

"And, lastly," she said, unconsciously repeating his formula, "you

scoff at everything that is good and pure, sneering at religion, and
drawing yourself aside from your fellow-creatures as though they
were loathsome. Yet I say to you, Dennis, that there is not a man in
the slums whose soul isn't far, far richer than yours. It is only a
coward, afraid to face the real things, who scoffs at life."

Weak from the effort she had made, her voice subsided into silence
and a cold sweat broke out on her brow and the palms of her hands.

"Will you smoke, Vera?"

"No, thanks," she answered faintly.

"Do. It would soothe you."

"No, I thank you." She repressed a sudden desire to fly from the
conservatory. She had become suddenly afraid of the cool, smiling
figure beside her.

"As far as girls are concerned," he said quietly, replacing the

cigarette-case in his pocket, "just as long as they angle for us with
every artifice of dress and rouge and coquetry, so long will they
catch us and the consequences. As for the law, which my mother
planned for me, I regret that my father left me the instincts of a
gentleman, not of an attorney. I am not boring you?"

She made no reply.

"As for the army, I don't happen to be interested in the war. I

disapprove of the crudeness of our Canadian civilization. I
disapprove of England's lack of the artistic. I disapprove of German
militarism, Scotch bagpipes, Swiss cheese, Chinese laundries, and
American politics. Why should I fight for one when I disapprove of
them all? As for my fellow-man, I shun the ordinary man of the
streets because he does not think, read, or bathe often enough. I
am not hostile to him; I merely ignore him. I am not a coward at all,
my dear Vera; I am merely an artist among artisans."

He bowed gracefully. "Let us return to the dancing," he said.

With a frightened, inquiring glance, she took his arm, and without a
word they left the conservatory. At the door of the ballroom they
paused, and she laid a timid hand on his arm. It will ever be a
mystery to men how women can love and despise the same object.

"Dennis," she said, "will you try to forget what I have said?" Her
courage had gone, fled before his coolness and the fascination he
held for her, though she had striven with all her womanhood to free
herself from it.

"I wish to Heaven I could," he said grimly.

The morning sunshine invaded the rooms of Dennis Montague with

pervading cheeriness. It was nearing the end of April, and a hundred
birds sang of the winter wonders of arid Africa, and of the witcheries
of the Nile, where Pygmies are at war with the butterflies, and the
great god Memnon raises his mighty shout to greet the dawn of day.

Oblivious to the sunshine and everything but his thoughts, Montague

lay in bed, and sought to wrestle with the truth he had heard the
night before. It was impossible to dismiss the thing from his mind.
His brain throbbed with resentment, questioning, searching her
words—striving to convince himself that her charge of cowardice
was the vituperation of an unrequited love. But it was useless. He
could explain her actions, dissect her motives, applaud his own pose,
but he could not eliminate the feeling of personal nausea which
clung to him, as though he had suddenly sickened of his whole
nature.

A knock at the door interrupted the thread of his thoughts, and his
valet entered with a tray of breakfast-things.

"Good morning, sir." Sylvester carefully rearranged the tray on a little

table beside the bed. "It's a beautiful morning, sir. There's great
news too."

"What is it?"

"Canadians 'ave saved Calais, sir—leastways they've stopped them

for the time."

"They're in action, eh?"

"'Orrible, too, sir; the paper says the Germans used poison gas."

"Good God!"

"Yes, sir—the French Colonials gave way, yelling that 'ell was let
loose, and the Canadians went up and 'eld the line."

Montague put down the cup of coffee untasted. "What does it say—
about casualties?"

"Why, sir it looks as if some battalions was pretty well wiped out.
'Ere's the paper, sir——"

"No—no. I don't want to see it. Tell me—it says … the Canadians
held against … gas?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are our Toronto chaps in it?"

"Very 'eavy, sir. It seems as if the 'Ighland Brigade got it the worst."
Montague sank back on the pillow, his face grim and pallid.

"Come along, sir; 'ere's your breakfast."

His master gazed at the ceiling. "Sylvester," he said listlessly, "for a

long time you have ministered to my body. What can you do for a
soul that is starving?"

The valet beamed reassuringly. A large and varied experience as a

servant to young gentlemen had inured him to morning-after
repentances.

"That's all right, sir," he said, rubbing his hands genially. "A bromo-
seltzer will fix you up. 'Ello, sir!" The sound of a military band drew
him to the window. "It's one of the new battalions—blooming near a
thousand of them. Seems like 'ome, it does, when the Guards used
to do London in all their swankin' regimentals."

A battalion swung past in steady rhythmical tread to the stirring

strains of the Welsh hymn of freedom, "Men of Harlech"—and there
was a youthful vigorousness about the men, a suggestion of
unconquerable manhood…. And on every man's face there was
written pride and determination. For their comrades had been tried
at Ypres…. They had held the line…. And, by the living God, the Hun
would pay for that foul gas given to the wind to carry against
defenseless men.

The last ranks of the battalion passed, and the music ceased as
suddenly as it had come. The birds resumed their chorus, and
William Sylvester his imperturbable mask of deference. Languidly
Montague rose from his bed and lit a cigarette.

"Our civilization," he said quietly, "need not pride itself on raising

those men. Men have always been brave since the beginning of
time. The terrible failure of our age is that it has produced men like
me—a coward."
Mr. Sylvester scratched his head. "Lord bless me, sir!" he ventured,
"you're not a coward. Why, look at the jump you took at last year's
horse show."

Montague turned on him with a vehemence that the valet had never
before seen in his master. "I tell you I am a coward," he said fiercely.
"Don't I know that my place is with these men? In that battalion that
passed there are married men with families, there are only sons of
widows, there are brothers, sweethearts. Who is there to care if I
go? My death would not cause a single tear; and yet I stay—not that
I am afraid of bullets or death, but because I know that I should
have to sleep beside men who are filthy, unclean, and that I should
grow filthy too. I abhor it. I detest it. Yet I stand aside and let others
go."

"You—you are a gentleman, sir."

"A gentleman!" Montague laughed raspingly. "My own definition last

night was 'a man with a valet and three addresses.' What a fool I
was! No, I am not a gentleman. I have never been one. The greatest
gentleman of all time was a carpenter. That is the truth I have to
burn into my soul."

He sank into a chair, and shadows of fatigue marred his face. "Last
night, Sylvester," he said slowly, "I lay awake for hours, and
sometimes in the awful darkness that surrounds one when sleep
refuses to come, things seem clearer and more cruel than in
daylight. Last night I saw myself for the first time…. I do not say I
shall change…. It is too late, I think…."

An hour later he left his flat, fully dressed, and strolled into the sun-
lit streets. A newsboy dashed past, screaming in strident tones, "All
night fighting—Canadian Line still holding;" and then, apparently
feeling the announcement needed identification, he shrieked, "All
about that great big European War."
Montague heard his name spoken. It was the ex-bank clerk, the
young subaltern with the uninspired face.

"Good-bye," he said rather shyly.

"Where are you going?"

"Marching orders," said the other. "We leave here to-morrow. By

jove, we've got something to fight for now!"

Montague murmured his best wishes and moved on, but the words
that kept running through his brain were those of the boy's manager
who had written "A decent enough fellow, but lacking in initiative."

VI

His walk, unplanned as it was, drew him towards the center of the
city. He mechanically avoided the streets that were crowded, and,
like a bit of flotsam on the ocean's surface, was guided and buffeted
until, turning down a quiet side-street, he emerged upon the corner
of a huge stone building. He glanced up, to realize that it was the
Armories and was about to change his course when a recruiting
sergeant, noticing his hesitation, stepped up to him.

"Beg pardon," he said, "but was you lookin' to sign up?"

"Sign up?" Montague repeated the words automatically.

"Sure—sign up with the Brindle's Battalion."

"The Brindle's Battalion?"

"Come off that parrot stuff," growled Sergeant Saunders.

Montague shook himself together. "I beg your pardon," he said

stiffly.
The sergeant shuffled uneasily. "Say, don't be so dashed polite," he
said, not ill-naturedly. "I'm here to get recruits. We're a tough
bunch; we're a rough bunch; but we're men. Our boys ain't strong
on polish or eddication, and they're no boozeless, non-smoking
crowd; but they're straight, and they're game, and they're men."

"They're men," repeated Montague, dazed by a dizziness that

seemed to wrap himself and the sergeant in an enveloping mist.

"That's what I said," reiterated Sergeant Saunders, mentally noting

that he would make Montague drop his sing-song if he ever got the
opportunity. "What do you say, old scout?"

Montague glanced up. "Will you take me?" he said.

"Will we take you?" A broad, brown hand grasped Montague's arm,

and he found himself being led into a room in the Armories, where
he discovered that his full name was Dennis Oliver Montague, that
he was twenty-eight years of age, that he was an Anglican, and that
his Uncle Charles was his next of kin. He further found that he was
the property of His Majesty King George the Fifth for the duration of
the war and six months after. "So 'elp me; and shove 'im in to the
medico.—Glad you signed up, my lad; you'll never regret it. We've
got a man's job for you, and—close that bleeding door, Nokes.—All
right.—Next!"

With whirlwind rapidity Dennis stripped for the doctor, who

pronounced him an excellent example of cannon-fodder; and, still
dazed, he put on his clothes and emerged into the open air, a red
band about his arm proclaiming to the world that he was now
Private D. O. Montague, of the Brindle's Battalion, C.E.F. He gasped,
shrugged his shoulders, then went home.

VII
Sergeant Skimps surveyed the squad of recruits with the eye of a
man who had seen recruits for twenty years and was impervious to
any emotion on the subject.

"You're soldiers now," he began, his dialect strongly reminiscent of

Bow Bells; "you're in the service now, so, kiss me, 'Arry, get your 'air
cut, all of yer. We don't go in for Paderooskies in the harmy. Then
'old yer 'eads hup and put yer chests hout has though you was
somebody. You ain't, but don't go tellin' no one." (A gentle murmur
greeted this sally.) "Halways respeck yer hofficers and non-
commissioned hofficers, and don't go slapping the colonel on the
back and hoffering 'im a cigar. You're in the harmy—that bloke at the
hend, spit out that there tobacco—g'wan!—a filthy 'abit on parade,
and it'll get C.B. for yer. Where do you 'ail from, hany'ow?—a nice
specimen, I don't think—chewing when a sawgeant's talking to yer.
Now, then, fall in—hanother 'arf-hour's drill."

For five hours that day alternately Sergeant Skimps talked, and his
tired squad turned, marched, and wheeled about the gravel parade-
ground. Weary to the point of exhaustion, already deaf to the
interminable harangue of Sergeant Skimps, the hour of four-thirty
found Montague with his first day in the army finished. He had only
one desire—to seek his apartment, to feel the cool shower upon his
body, and to lounge in languid repose in his dressing-gown, soothed
by the inevitable cigarette. He broke away from the group, but was
hailed by a ruddy-faced Little Englander, who had made various
overtures to him during the day.

"Going up?" said the other, his accent proclaiming his British birth,
tempered by ten years of Canadian citizenship.

"Yes," said Montague; "but I'm in a hurry."

"Right-o! I'm with you." He swung along beside Montague. "This is

the life," he said cheerily.
"What?" asked Montague.

"Soldiering—a dollar ten a day, short hours, and no work—what ho!"

"Do you mean to say you like it?" asked Montague, wishing his
companion reeked a little less of his recent exertions.

"Why not like it?" said Private Waller. "We're in it, ain't we?"

"I suppose so," said the other shortly.

Private Waller rubbed his hands together. "He's a sergeant, ain't he?"

"Do you mean that strutting bounder who drilled us to-day?"

"Lordee! don't let him hear you say that." The little man went pale at
the thought. "Say, if you don't like him, just wait until you see
Sergeant-Major 'Awkins."

A cockney of even ten years' Canadian citizenship loses his h's when
excited. Montague began to wince under it, and wished a dozen
times that his companion would hold his tongue and give him a
chance to think, to separate the varied experiences of the day, and
to edit his thoughts. He shrugged his shoulders and acknowledged
the greeting of Mrs. Merryweather from a huge motor-car. Waller's
eyes bulged.

"I say, you know some swells, don't you? What was you—a
chauffeur?"

Montague considered. "No; I was a sort of social buffoon."

Waller considered. "Something in the plumbing line?" he ventured.

"Not exactly," answered Montague, and muttered, "Duration of the

war—and six months after—with plebs like this!"
"I'm a carpenter by trade," vouchsafed Private Waller, and then
emitted a shout of delight. "I say," he cried; "blime, if it ain't the
missus!"

In a few moments they reached a little Englishwoman, not much

more than a girl, who was guiding a baby-carriage containing a
chubby little youngster of some two years of age.

"'Ello, Bill!" she said. "'Ow's the army?"

"Great," said her husband; "but meet my pal, Private Montague.—

Private Montague, meet my old woman."

"Glad to know any friend of Bill's," said Mrs. Waller warmly.

Montague bowed. "Thank you," he said gravely. "You are giving up a

lot in letting your husband go to the war."

"You said I had to, Emily."

The girl pouted. "'E would go."

"But you wanted to go, Bill."

"Of course; but I said——"

"I know—about the biby; but——"

"There you go again. Didn't you say I must?"

"Oh, well, Mr. Montague"—the little woman looked frankly into his
gray-blue, unreadable eyes—"the biby's a boy, and when he grows
up I cawn't say to 'im, ''Arry, your father was a slacker!' Now, can I,
Mr. Montague?"

He made no answer, but a thoughtful look crept into the hard,

unsmiling eyes.
"Come and have a bit of supper, pard?" Private Waller rubbed his
hands together at the prospect.

"No—no, thanks," said Montague hastily. He was longing for privacy

and the solace that comes with solitude. "Some other night,
perhaps, when we have our uniforms."

"Good enough!" cried the cheery little man. "Then we'll do Queen
Street together and show the girls—what ho—oh no!"

Montague raised his hat. "Good evening," he said.

"So long," said Private Waller. "See you in the morning."

When they were alone the husband turned to his young wife with an
air of pride. "What do you think of my pal?" he asked, with an air of
proprietorship.

"G'wan," said Emily disdainfully; "'e ain't your pal."

"He is, too."

"'E ain't!" She tossed her head. "Don't I know one when I sees one;
me, the daughter of a footman in Lady Swankbourne's? 'E your pal!
'E blooming well ain't—'e's a gentleman!"

Far up the street Montague was striding towards his home,

wondering if any one had seen him with the Wallers, or had heard
the garrulous little cockney call him pard. Good heavens! what would
his friends say; or, for that matter, how could he face Sylvester if he
had been seen by that polite scion of servitude? "But I'll see it
through," he muttered savagely, biting his lip, "if only to prove that
the under-dog, like all other dogs, is a thing without a soul!"

VIII
It was early in November about eighteen months later that Vera
Dalton, returning from her self-imposed task at a Military
Convalescent Home, found a letter awaiting her which bore the
heading that will cast its unique spell over us and our children for
generations to come—"Somewhere in France."

Sorrow had come into her home, as it had into so many hundreds of
others, but it had mellowed, not marred her womanliness.

Into the vortex of the nations she had seen the young men of
Canada flinging themselves with laughing voices and sturdy courage.
With the other women of the city she had watched the endless
stream of youth as though, across the seas, some Hamelin Piper
were playing an irresistible, compelling melody…. And still the cry
was for more—more sons, more brothers, more fathers! Month after
month the ceaseless crusade went on—month after month new
battalions sprang into being, trained a short time, and then made for
the sea…. Always the sea, waiting with its foaming restlessness to
carry its human cargo to the slaughter.

The sea … the sea….

It became the symbol of sacrifice to her. Across its turbulent

expanse, youth was forfeiting its life for the blindness of the past.
The hungry fire of war was being fed with human hearts…. But such
is the nature of fire that what lives through it is imperishable.

A year ago Montague had gone with his battalion—without even a

good-bye. She had never heard of him, but the ordeal of the flames
had left him stripped of his artificiality as a tree stricken by a sudden
frost is robbed in a moment of its foliage. It is not only the best in
men that lives through war—vile passions vie with courage and great
sacrifice…. But artificial things succumb and crumple with the
scorching heat, and are blown into space by the breath of passions,
base or noble—it matters not—they are real.
With trembling hands she opened the letter.

"Somewhere in France.

"My dear Girl,—In a couple of hours we are going over the

parapet to reach the German lines or gain oblivion—or
worse. All around me the men I have worked with, slept
with, fought with, are writing to, or thinking of, some loved
one at home. I do not know whether the love you once felt
for me has died or not, but it was once strong enough to
hurt me as no one had ever done before—to tear my soul
out to where I could see its rottenness with my own eyes.
I could not live with myself after that, and as you must
have heard, for I believe it was a drawing-room jest for
some time, I joined a battalion composed almost entirely
of men from the factories, the workshops, and the streets.

"It was partly a spirit of bravado made me do it, and partly

a desire to wrestle with truth. I cannot say how hard it was
at first to endure their company, their incessant,
meaningless profanity. I hated every one of them. To
salute an officer in the street caused me such humiliation
that I thought of desertion a dozen times. From my
contempt of my fellow-soldiers to an understanding of their
nobility has been a hard, cruel road to travel; but I have
traveled it, and I think that somewhere on the road there
is a cross whereon my pride was crucified. Vera, my prayer
is no longer that of the Pharisee, but of the Publican. I was
offered a commission; I was urged to join the signalers or
the machine-gun section, because there I should find men
more after my own stamp; but I refused—the memory of
your words made me stick with the men I started with.

"I have found them crude, uneducated, unambitious, but

true as steel, and asking no better reward for their heroism
 than that their 'missus and kids' will be looked after at
home. I tell you, Vera, that when the war is over we shall
have to realize that it is not only the consumptive and the
imbecile that deserve care and thought. There is a
grandeur, a manhood, in the ordinary, unlovely, unkempt
man of the streets that our civilization has failed to bring
out, but war has done it. So much has war given to us; so
much has peace failed to give.

"Life has become a riddle to me, still fascinating, but

fascinatingly puzzling. Perhaps I shall find the answer in No
Man's Land.

"Good-bye, dear girl. Don't think from the tone of my letter

that I have forgotten how to smile (this is where real
humor is found, for humor was always a twin to tragedy).
But I am forgetting how to scoff. I suppose, though, that I
haven't changed beyond recognition, for I believe behind
my back I am called 'The Duke.'

"Like my comrades, I have written to a loved one at home.

"I trust, Vera, that it is au revoir.

"Dennis.

"D. O. Montague, Pte. No. 67,895,

"Brindle's Battalion, C.E.F."

IX

"Four minutes!" A subaltern, who had reached the Brindle's Battalion

only the night before, stood with his back to the parapet, his wrist
turned so that he could study the face of his watch. Half-a-dozen
rifles spat at the German trench opposite. The attack was to be a
surprise, without preliminary artillery fire.

"Three minutes!" There was a slight catch in the lieutenant's voice

as he watched the ominous course of the hand of his watch ticking
off the seconds. Dennis Montague turned to look at him, wondering
where he had seen him before, and idly conjecturing how he had
earned that little splash of color on his breast.

A signaler looked up from his phone. "O.C. wants to know if

everything is ready, sir."

"Two minutes! Has every man his gas-helmet, water-bottle, iron

ration? Right. Tell the O.C. everything's O.K."

There was a coarse jest from a grizzled corporal; a few laughed

nervously. A little chap, who had lied about his age, caught his
breath in a sob he could not stifle. The young officer, who was
beside him, reached out his hand and patted the lad's shoulder.

"One minute!" Every man crouched for the spring—there was a

mumbled prayer—a curse—a laugh. Montague took a deep,
quivering breath, and his trembling hand felt for the bayonet-stud to
see that it was firm.

"Come on, Brindles! Give 'em hell!" The subaltern leaped to the
parapet, stood silhouetted a moment against the dull, cloudy sky,
and, without a word, fell back into the trench—a corpse. And in that
moment Montague remembered him. He was the "decent enough
fellow"—"lacking in initiative."

Cursing, shouting, laughing, the men scrambled over the

breastwork, and were met by a torrent of machine-gun fire that
swept through their ranks with pitiless accuracy.

"Something's wrong!" yelled Major Watson from the center. "They

knew we were coming;" and he whirled around twice and dropped in
his tracks. Montague leaped forward with a hoarse, inarticulate
shout, when he felt a blow on his arm as though it had been struck
by a red-hot iron. He fell, but rose immediately, madly excited,
muttering words that meant nothing. The charge had stopped
halfway, and all about him his comrades stood irresolute, desperate,
unable to advance, determined not to retreat.

"Come on," shrieked the adjutant, "for God's sake!" And he fell,
choking, vomiting blood, with a bullet in his throat.

Without an officer left, the men looked wildly about, the bullets
spitting around them and taking their steady, merciless toll. With a
great feeling of ecstasy, Montague staggered to the front.

"Steady, the Brindles!" he yelled hoarsely. "Shake out the line to the
left—cold steel, Brindles! Come on!"

"Follow the Duke!" roared a dozen voices; and they hurled

themselves forward.

They hacked their way into the trench, but their triumph was short-
lived. Things had gone badly on the left, and the signal to retire
flashed along the line. With horrible blaspheming, the Brindles gave
up their trench and started back for their own line. When he was
half-way across a bullet struck Montague in the shoulder, then
another in the thigh, and he sank to the ground unconscious.

When he awoke the moonlight was streaming over the stricken field.
He bit his lip to keep from crying out at the sudden spasm of pain in
his shoulder, and then something he saw almost stopped the beating
of his heart. A figure was slowly crawling towards him, inch by inch,
but steadily, ominously coming nearer with every moment. His left
arm was helpless, and he tried to reach for his bayonet by turning
over.

"Pard, are you dead?"

Never did sounds of sweetest music fall more gratefully on human
ears than the words uttered by Private Waller on the night of
October 16, 1916, on No Man's Land, Somewhere in France.

"Thank God!" cried Montague, his voice weak and quavering. "Waller
—old—boy."

"Damn!" muttered Private Waller. The Germans, with customary

fiendishness, were searching the ground with rifle-fire to prevent any
attempt at rescue. "Are you much hurt, pard?"

"I'm used up pretty bad," Montague answered weakly, and in

incorrect English. Things change in No Man's Land.

"I'm the third as has come after you," whispered Waller; "Sykes and
Thompson got theirs."

"Coming—for me?" Montague's voice trailed off into a querulous sob.

"Sure—those of us as got back shook hands on it that we'd get the

Duke back dead or alive."

Montague tried to speak, but only two scalding tears slowly trickled
down his cheeks. He was weak from loss of blood, and he was
learning a bitter lesson in the moonlight on the stricken field.

"I'll hoist you up as easy as I can," whispered Private Waller eagerly,

"and I'll sort of crawl; and if they spot us, I'll let you down easy.
Come on, pard."

Fifty yards—that was all—but fifty yards of unspeakable agony. The

blood flowed again from Dennis's wounds and matted over Waller's
hair. A dozen times he would have fainted, but he grit his teeth, and
crawling, grasping, falling, Waller took him to the edge of the trench.
And then a bullet caught the little man, and he dropped.

"Good-bye, pard," he said.

So died Private W. Waller, of His Majesty's Canadian Expeditionary
Force.

Almost a year later, a one-armed man was walking along a quiet

street in the northern suburbs of a great Canadian city. He paused at
a pretty little cottage that nestled in a well-kept garden to speak to a
young woman whose black dress was mute testimony to her tragic
bereavement.

"'Ow can I ever thank you, Mr. Montague," she said, "for giving me
this cottage and going guardian to little 'Arry? And your wife, too, is
that kind and beautiful that after she comes—and she is in and out
nearly hevery day—I feel as if an angel had been 'ere. Well, if here
ain't little 'Arry with his face all dirty!"

A sturdy urchin stumbled forward, and in some way the one-armed

man hoisted him to his shoulder.

"Hello, pard!" said Montague.

The little chap chuckled and pulled at his hat.

"I often wonders," said the little mother, "why you always calls him
'pard.' Bill used to call you his pard, but I knew all along you wasn't.
You was a gentleman, Mr. Montague."

"Mrs. Waller," said Montague, and his voice was very low and soft, "I
lay one night, wounded and dying, on No Man's Land. Your husband
came for me, and he called me 'pard,' and he died for me. Perhaps
you may understand a little of—what it means to me now."

Tears, bitter tears, the heritage of war. Mrs. Waller wept silently, and
Montague's eyes looked past the garden, past the countryside, and
saw neither trees nor houses, but a strip of land guarded by wire
entanglements, and two lines of trenches where men lived, and
laughed, and learned, and died.

A little later the same one-armed man stood at a gate that gave
entrance to a splendid lawn. It was his home, and as he stood for a
moment drinking in the calm and peace of Nature at sundown, a girl
emerged from the house and came towards him with outstretched
hands.

Wonderfully happy, maimed, but filled with deep content, Dennis

Montague, the man who had scoffed, went forward to meet his wife,
the girl who had had the courage to hurt the thing she loved. And
the deepening rays of the setting sun spread a golden carpet for
them to walk upon.
 THE AIRY PRINCE
I

On a hillock that overlooked a mill-stream in Picardy, a girl of sixteen

was lying, face downwards, reading a book. The noise of the water
tumbling over the chute was a song to which her ears had grown
accustomed, but more than once she looked up as the October wind
rose and fell in a chromatic whine. A dark, thickening cloud crept
sullenly towards the earth, throwing its shadow on her book.

She gazed up at it and sighed.

A black cat, his green eyes glowing suspiciously in the fading light,
stalked from the mill-house and furtively watched a wanton leaf that
was flirting hilariously with the autumn breeze, until, still coquetting,
it was caught by the stream and carried to destruction.

The cat's teeth showed for a moment in a sinister grin. Cautiously

measuring each step, he climbed to the top of the hillock, crouched
suspiciously as a blade of grass moved in the wind, then scampered
boldly up to the girl and settled ostentatiously upon the open pages
of the book, for a siesta.

"Tiens!" The girl started, laughingly caught the offender by the ear,
and pulled him to one side. "Louis, you have very bad manners," she
said, speaking in French. "You come so, without asking permission,
and you go to sleep on The Fairy Prince. Wake up, Louis! To you I
am speaking."
The cat opened his eyes, bent them on her with a reproving look,
and slowly closed them once more.

"Louis! Wake up—listen! I will read to you The Fairy Prince, and if
you go to sleep I'll have you gr-r-r-r-ound into black flour. See there
now!"

Louis scratched his ear with a hind paw, rubbed his nose with a fore
one, sneezed, opened his eyes to their widest, and generally
indicated that he was thoroughly awake—in fact, was not likely ever
to sleep again in this world. His little mistress gathered her shawl
more tightly about her shoulders, and, crossing one foot over the
other, shifted her position to secure the acme of comfort.

"Now then, my friend, attention! This is all about a little girl—like

me, Louis, only she was pretty. Tell me, Louis, am I pretty, eh? Stop
yawning when I ask you a question. You sleep almost all day and all
night, and when you do wake up—you yawn. Pouf! Such laziness! So
—this is the story. This little girl, she lived like me in a house away,
ever so far away, from everything, and she was very unhappy. You
understand, Louis, she was so lonesome. And every night she would
cry herself to sleep—as I do sometimes, because—because——Wake
up, you wicked cat!"

The feline culprit stretched his paws and sat up rigidly, like a
slumbering worshiper in church who has been detected in the act,
but tries to indicate that he has merely been lost in contemplation of
the preacher's theme. The girl frowned at Louis, and, laughing gaily,
rubbed her cheek against his head.

Her laugh had hardly ended when, as her ear caught the note of
melancholy in the wind, she looked up, and her face, which had
hovered a moment before between a frown and a smile, was
shadowed by a musing expression that left her eyes dreamy and her
lips drooping in the slightest and most sensitive of curves. Her dark
hair, rippling into curls, fell back from a forehead whose fullness and
whiteness added to the spiritual innocence of her countenance.
Without being faultless, her face had an elusive mobility of
expression that altered with each mood as swiftly as the surface of a
pool lying exposed to the caprices of an April morning.

"Is it not a pretty story, Louis?" Of a sudden the filmy dreaminess of

her eyes had lifted, and their dark-brown depths sparkled with life.
"I am so glad at the convent they made me learn to read. But it is
dreadfully difficult, my friend—there are such big words, you see.
Well, Louis, this little girl went one day for a walk to the top of a hill
—but you shall hear exactly how it is."

She carefully found the place in the book, and, with a finger
following each line in case she should miss any of it, proceeded to
read in that ecstatic and unreal style of voice inevitable to young
people when uttering other thoughts than their own.

"'… Reaching the top of the hill, the most beautiful little girl in the
world, whose eyes were brighter than stars, and whose lips were
redder than the heart of a rose' (like me, Louis—yes?) 'sat down on
a fallen tree and started to sing a song which she had learned from
a solitary shepherd near her home.'—It does not say, Louis, but I
think, perhaps, the music goes like this:

"'Maman, dites moi ce qu'on sent quand on aime.

Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?
Je suis tout le jour dans une peine extrême,
Et la nuit, je ne sais comment.
Si quelqu'un près….

"'And just then she saw a handsome cavalier approaching on foot.'

(Is it not exciting, Louis?) 'He was tall and young, and was the
bravest soldier in all France. He was so brave and handsome that
every one called him "The Fairy Prince"'—Listen, Louis, to the wind."
The lowering clouds threw black shadows over the fields; the
hurrying water of the mill-stream turned the color of ink as it made,
shudderingly, for the fall of the chute. Through the ominous rise and
fall of the October wind came the sound of an aeroplane in the
clouds, to be lost a moment later in a boisterous rush of wind that
swept the girl's tresses.

"Come, Louis, under my shawl—so! It is cold, is it not? As soon as

we finish this part of the story, we shall go in by the stove and work
until bed-time, then…. Do you ever dream, Louis?"

The black cat opened one green eye and closed it with the solemnity
of an all-understanding wink.

"I often dream, my cat"—again the wistfulness lingered about her

face—"and always it is of the world that is past the village…. Is it
that I must stay here and never, never, see that world but when I
dream? Voyons—what has all this to do with the Fairy Prince? I
continue, Louis: 'As soon as the handsome cavalier saw the loveliest
little girl in all the country, he came towards her….'"

The droning sound grew louder. She looked up and watched the
dark billows of clouds hovering over the fields, when, suddenly,
through the heavy, underhanging mist, an aeroplane appeared,
descended swiftly towards the earth, straightened out its course,
and soared into the clouds again.

She could hear the whirring of the machine as it circled round and
round, like an angry hornet outside its nest that has been entered by
an invader. The sound of the engine grew increasingly loud; again
the mists parted as foam from the prow of a ship, and again the
aeroplane swooped towards the earth. She could almost make out
the features of the helmeted occupant, when, with a deafening roar,
the machine checked its downward flight, and rose once more until
the clouds took it to their bosom and hid it from sight.
"Louis!" Her voice shook. "I am frightened. Louis, we will go in and
pray to the Virgin, you and I. It may be an Allemand, and, so 'tis
said, they eat little girls—and black cats too."

The whir-r of the engines grew angry with intensity, then fainter as
the machine rose to a greater height. Suddenly the droning ceased.
The tumbling waters of the chute seemed insistently loud, as though
jealous of the brawling monster that had dared to challenge its
incessant song. The girl had just stooped to resume her book when,
above the whining breeze, there was a sound like that of a saw-mill
she had once heard in Étrun—but it came from the air—far over by
the village road.

With a catch of her breath, she saw the aeroplane pierce the mists
once more, and realized that it was pointing towards her as it
descended. Rising to her feet, she pressed her hand against her
mouth to keep from screaming, while ominously, noiselessly (but for
an occasional hum such as wires give on a frosty night), the giant
bird sped lower and nearer.

"Louis!" she cried. "Louis!"

Weak with terror, she grasped for the cat, to find that that ungallant
protector had bolted ingloriously to the mill-house. Unable to move,
she watched the monster as it touched the earth, bounded lightly,
felt the ground a second time, and staggered unevenly over a rise in
the ground. There was a final Wagnerian crescendo of the engines,
and the aeroplane stopped, motionless, less than fifty yards from
her.

The aviator climbed from the pilot's seat and looked about with a
puzzled air. He was dressed in a leather coat which reached to the
top of his riding-boots, and his head was encased in a leather
helmet. Raising his goggles, he looked toward the mill-house, and,
for the first time, caught sight of the girl.
For a moment he hesitated, then made towards her, taking an
extraordinary length of pace for one of his medium build, and raising
his knees, as a bather will do when wading through surf. He paused,
irresolute, about five yards from her, saluted, unbuckled a strap, and
removed his helmet with a carelessness that left his generous supply
of light-brown hair standing straight up like the quills of a porcupine.
His face was rather long, and, except for his eyes, which twinkled
humorously, bore a look of exaggerated solemnity. Constant
exposure to the sun had tanned his face a vigorous brown, but his
moustache and eyebrows, which were of a size, appeared to have
completely faded, and stood out, glow-worm-like, against the
background of tan.

For a full minute they gazed at each other, the girl with parted lips
and heightened color, the new-comer's gravity slowly giving way to
the good-humored persistence of his light-blue eyes, until with a
smile he ran his fingers through his rumpled hair.

"Phew!" he said.

With something between a sob and an exclamation of delight, she

clapped her hands together twice, "Ciel!" she cried, "but I am so
happy!"

The mill-stream had ceased to shudder and had resumed its song….
With an air of furtive preoccupation, Louis emerged from
concealment and proceeded towards them after the manner of an
unpopular Mexican President walking down the main street of an
unfriendly city…. The darkening shadows blended with the early
approach of night…. And her heart was beating wildly, joyously.

Adventure had come to the lonely mill-house in Picardy—and, after

all, one is not always sixteen.

II
"Will you please tell me where I am?" The young man spoke in
French with ease, but more than a trace of an English accent.

"This is my uncle's mill."

"Of course. And that road?——"

"But the village road, monsieur—what else?"

"And, Mademoiselle Elusive, what village may it be?"

"'Tis where the church is, monsieur; and every Sunday I go there to
mass."

The pilot produced a pipe and, extracting a pouch, proceeded to fill

it with tobacco.

"I am lost," he said complacently. "My compass was shot away, and
the clouds are hanging too low for me to follow any landmarks."

He looked about at the steadily thickening twilight. "How far is it to

the village?" he asked.

"Five kilometers—and a little better."

"The Devil!" He made a screen from the wind with the flap of his
coat, and lighting his pipe, puffed it with evident satisfaction. "I shall
have to leave the old 'bus' here. As a matter of fact, she's so nearly
'napoo' that I rather expected to come riding home on one plane,
like the old woman with the broom. But, mademoiselle——"

"Monsieur?"

"I am very tired and distinctly hungry, and I know of a mill-house

with a cosy fire in the kitchen, where a pretty little fairy that——"

"There is no fairy—only Louis."

"And who the deuce may he be?"

"The cat—le voici!"

He surveyed the feline with an air of tolerant gravity. "Do you think
Louis may object if I remain for supper?"

"Ah—but no!" She laughed gaily, but a look of doubt changed the
expression of her features in a moment. "But my uncle—he never
has any one in the house. For many years I have lived alone with
him. Only when the curé comes, perhaps once a month, does any
one visit the mill. My uncle is very surly, a perfect bear, and often he
gets drunk as well."

The young man raised his absurdly light eyebrows. "A pleasant
relative, mademoiselle. And, pray, what is his grievance against his
fellowmen?"

"I know not, monsieur. All week he works alone, except when he
takes the flour to sell, but on Sundays he always goes to church and
leads the chanting. He was taught Latin by his father, who was a
gravedigger in Paris and learned it from the tombstones. So on
Sundays my uncle, from his seat in the chancel, performs the chants
in such a terrible voice that almost always some children scream
with terror, and once Madame La Comtesse fainted."

The aviator relit his pipe, which had gone out, but did not remove
his eyes from hers.

"Once," went on the girl, plucking a blade of grass and making a

knot with it about her finger, "two villagers, Simon Barit and Armand
Cartier, were requested by the curé, who is very small and weak, to
tell my uncle to sing no more. Ah monsieur, it was terrible!"

"Yes?"

"My uncle he is a very strong man; he threw Simon Barit into the
stream, and the other he chased almost to the village."
"And so, like the mill-stream, he goes on forever?"

"Ah, yes, monsieur, like the war—forever. Listen!"

A great voice, sonorous as that of the fabled giant calling for his
evening meal of an Englishman, rent the air. The October wind
seemed to quiver to its lowest note, and the water racing over the
chute was quieter than it had been for hours.

"I must go, monsieur. It is his supper he wants."

"And may I not come too?"

"Ah—but no! I am frightened."

"Of me?"

She raised her wide brown eyes to his, and her eyelashes, which so
jealously guarded those guileless depths, parted grudgingly,
revealing to him their full beauty…. Another roar shattered the air,
and she laid her hand upon his wrist. "You must not come," she said
earnestly. "He would throw you into the stream."

His melancholy face gave way to a boyish grin. "If he did,

mademoiselle, my ghost would haunt him forever. All night it would
sing outside his window—and, in truth, my singing is no less terrible
than his."

There was another roar, followed by a reference to the untimely

decease of ten thousand devils.

Without a word, she reached for her book, and, throwing her shawl
over her left shoulder, hurried away. The aviator watched her girlish
figure with its unconscious grace, then, turning about, he strolled to
the machine, and, sitting on the side of the fuselage, surveyed its
bullet-punctured carcass.
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