The Tin Soldier. Temple Bailey
shall always have you on my mind—."
"But not to worry about, baby. I'm not worth it—."
Hilda came in with the evening paper. "Have you read it, Doctor?"
"No." He glanced at the headlines and his face grew hard. "More frightfulness," he said, stormily. "If I had my way, it should be an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. For every man they have tortured, there should be one of their men—tortured. For every child mutilated, one of theirs—mutilated. For every woman—."
He stopped. Jean had caught hold of his arm. "Don't, Daddy," she said thickly, "it makes me afraid of you." She covered her face with her hands.
He drew her to him and smoothed her hair in silence. Over her head he glanced at Hilda. She was smiling inscrutably into the fire.
CHAPTER III
DRUSILLA
The thing that Derry Drake had on his mind the next morning was a tea-cup. There were other things on his mind—things so heavy that he turned with relief to the contemplation of cups.
Stuck all over the great house were cabinets of china—his father had collected and his mother had prized. Derry, himself, had not cared for any of it until this morning, but when Bronson, the old man who served him and had served his father for years, came in with his breakfast, Derry showed him a broken bit which he had brought home with him two nights before. "Have we a cup like this anywhere in the house, Bronson?"
"There's a lot of them, sir, in the blue room, in the wall cupboard."
"I thought so, let me have one of them. If Dad ever asks for it, send him to me. He broke the other, so it's a fair exchange."
He had it carefully wrapped and carried it downtown with him. The morning was clear, and the sun sparkled on the snow. As he passed through Dupont Circle he found that a few children and their nurses had braved the cold. One small boy in a red coat ran to Derry.
"Where are you going, Cousin Derry?"
"Down town."
"To-day is Margaret-Mary's birf-day. I am going to give her a wabbit—."
"Rabbit, Buster. You'd better say it quick. Nurse is on the way."
"Rab-yit. What are you going to give her?"
"Oh, must I give her something?"
"Of course. Mother said you'd forget it. I wanted to telephone, and she wouldn't let me."
"Would a doll do?"
"I shouldn't like a doll. But she is littler. And you mustn't spend much money. Mother said I spent too much for my rab-yit. That I ought to save it for Our Men. And you mustn't eat what you yike—we've got a card in the window, and there wasn't any bacon for bref-fus."
"Breakfast."
"Yes. An' we had puffed rice and prunes—"
Nurse, coming up, was immediately on the job. "You are getting mud on Mr. Derry's spats, Teddy. Stand up like a little gentleman."
"He is always that, Nurse, isn't he? And I should not have on spats at this hour in the morning."
Derry smiled to himself as he left them. He knew that Nurse did not approve of him. He had a way as it were of aiding and abetting Teddy.
But as he went on the smile faded. There were many soldiers on the street, many uniforms, flags of many nations draping doorways where were housed the men from across the sea who were working shoulder to shoulder with America for the winning of the war—. Washington had taken on a new aspect. It had a waked-up look, as if its lazy days were over, and there were real things to do.
The big church at the triangle showed a Red Cross banner. Within women were making bandages, knitting sweaters and socks, sewing up the long seams of shirts and pajamas. A few years ago they had worshipped a Christ among the lilies. They saw him now on the battlefield, crucified again in the cause of humanity.
It seemed to Derry that even the civilians walked with something of a martial stride. Men, who for years had felt their strength sapped by the monotony of Government service, were revived by the winds of patriotism which swept from the four corners of the earth. Women who had lost youth and looks in the treadmill of Departmental life held up their heads as if their eyes beheld a new vision.
Street cars were crowded, things were at sixes and sevens; red tape was loose where it should have been tight and tight where it should have been loose. Little men with the rank of officer sat in swivel chairs and tried to direct big things; big men, without rank, were tied to the trivial. Many, many things were wrong, and many, many things were right, as it is always when war comes upon a people unprepared.
And in the midst of all this clash and crash and movement and achievement, Derry was walking to a toy shop to carry a tea-cup!
He found Miss Emily alone in the big front room.
She did not at once recognize him.
"You remember I was in here the other night—and you wouldn't sell—tin soldiers—."
She flushed a little. "Oh, with your father?"
"Yes. He's a dear old chap—."
It was the best apology he could make, and she loved him for it.
He brought out the cup and set it on the counter. "It is like yours?"
"Yes." But she did not want to take it.
"Please. I brought it on purpose. We have a dozen."
"Of these?"
"Yes."
"But it will break your set."
"We have oodles of sets. Dad collects—you know—There are dishes enough in the house to start a crockery shop."
She glanced at him curiously. It was hard to reconcile this slim young man of fashion with the shabby boy of the other night. But there were the lad's eyes, smiling into hers!
"I should like, too, if you don't mind, to find a toy for a very little girl. It is her birthday, and I had forgotten."
"It is dreadful to forget," Miss Emily told him, "children care so much."
"I have never forgotten before, but I had so much on my mind."
She brought forth the Lovely Dreams—"They have been a great success."
He chose at once a rose-colored cat and a yellow owl. The cat was carved impressionistically in a series of circles. She was altogether celestial and comfortable. The owl might have been lighted by the moon.
"But why?" Derry asked, "a rose-colored cat?"
"Isn't a white cat pink and puffy in the firelight? And a child sees her pink and puffy. If we don't it is because we are blind."
"But why the green ducks and the amethyst cows?"
"The cows are coming tinkling home in the twilight—the green ducks swim under the willows. And they are longer and broader because of the lights and shadows. That's the way you saw them when you were six."
"By Jove," he said, staring, "I believe I did."
"So there's nothing queer about them to the children—you ought to see them listen when Jean tells them."
Jean—!
"She—she tells