Phyllis--her mother and Basil's mother being present--shook hands merely
with Basil when she saw him first at the old woodland, and Basil
blushed like a girl. They fell behind as the older people walked toward
the auditorium, and Basil managed to get hold of her hand, but she
pulled it away rather haughtily. She was looking at him very
reproachfully, a moment later, when her eyes became suddenly fixed to
the neck of his blouse, and filled with tears. She began to cry softly.

"Why, Phyllis."

Phyllis was giving way, and, thereupon, with her own mother and Basil's
mother looking on, and to Basil's blushing consternation, she darted for
his neck-band and kissed him on the throat. The throat flushed, and in
the flush a tiny white spot showed--the mouth of a tiny wound where a
Mauser bullet had hissed straight through.

Then the old auditorium again, and Crittenden, who had welcomed the
Legion to camp at Ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor's advice,
to welcome it to home and fireside. And when he faced the crowd--if they
cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that
broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest,
two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking
what none others were--the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the
soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero. These two looked
deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of
battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the
face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing--and his bearing had
always been proud--a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose.