my home—has been the home of my people for generations. And yet, if the purpose of one man, or perhaps two, had been carried out on this perfect autumn day, it would have been no home—only a pile of rocks. And beneath that pile would have been the crushed forms of three persons I love.”

“This,” he said aloud, “is war. Come on.” His voice was hoarse. “Let’s get on down.”

Chapter V The Young Lord

Chapter V

The house in which the Ramseys lived was large. Its kitchen was immense—large as the entire first floor of a modern American home. Its fireplace took a five-foot log at its back. Walled round with two-foot thick stone, with flagstone floor and massive beamed ceiling, this room seemed the inside of a fort. And that, in days long gone bye, it might very well have been, for a moat—in these days dry and grown up to shrubs—ran round the house.

It was in this great room, when the day’s work was done and night had shut out both the beauty and the horror of the day, that the family gathered about the cheery fire.

Over the massive glowing logs a teakettle sang. By the hearth lay Flash, the golden collie. Back of him, on a rug, the two young girls played at jacks. Dave, who sat nearest to them, noted with approval that their hair was now neatly combed, their dresses clean, their faces shining—“That’s the part Alice plays,” he thought with approval.

As his eyes swept the circle, Alice knitting, Cherry smiling over a book, Jock and Brand talking about cattle that had strayed, he thought: “This is indeed a happy home.”

At that moment there came the sound of a motor, followed by a loud honk. At once Cherry, with cheeks aglow, was at the door.

She ushered in a young man of medium height, with smooth dark hair and smiling black eyes.

“Good evening, everybody,” he exclaimed. “Thought I’d just drop by to see how you liked the bombing. Stirred you up a bit. I’ll bet on that. I—” He paused as his eyes fell on Dave. Dave was new to him. So too were the small girls who stared up at him.

“Lord Applegate,” Cherry began, “I want you—”

“Forget about the Lord part,” the young man laughed. “I’m not yet a lord. If ever I receive the title it will never fit. Call me Harmon, as you’ve always done, or 

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