stop her, before he knew what she was doing, she had caught and kissed his unworthy hand.
“I knowed you would,” she sobbed. “I always knowed you would, you nice boy, you! Old Mahail’ knowed!”
Her upturned face was working all over; her mouth, her eyebrows, even the wrinkles on her low forehead were working and twitching. Claude felt a tightening in his throat as he tenderly regarded that face; behind the pale eyes, under the low brow where there was not room for many thoughts, an idea was struggling and tormenting her. The same idea that had been tormenting him.
“You’re all right, Mahailey,” he muttered, patting her back and turning away. “Now hurry breakfast.”
“You ain’t told your mudder yit?” she whispered.
“No, not yet. But she’ll be all right, too.” He caught up his cap and went down to the barn to look after the horses.
When Claude returned, the family were already at the breakfast table. He slipped into his seat and watched his mother while she drank her first cup of coffee. Then he addressed his father.
“Father, I don’t see any use of waiting for the draft. If you can spare me, I’d like to get into a training camp somewhere. I believe I’d stand a chance of getting a commission.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.” Mr. Wheeler poured maple syrup on his pancakes with a liberal hand. “How do you feel about it, Evangeline?”
Mrs. Wheeler had quietly put down her knife and fork. She looked at her husband in vague alarm, while her fingers moved restlessly about over the tablecloth.
“I thought,” Claude went on hastily, “that maybe I would go up to Omaha tomorrow and find out where the training camps
