“You big coward， you！” she called， in her clear， crisp voice.
“If you had your foot on the ground you wouldn’t dast call to adecent girl like that. If you were down here I’d slap the face ofyou. You know you’re safe up there.”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Chet Ball’ssturdy legs were twinkling down the pole. His spurred heelsdug into the soft pineof the pole with little ripe， tearing sounds.
He walked up to Stasia and stood squarely in front of her， sixfeet of brawn and brazen nerve. One ruddy cheek he presentedto her astonished gaze. “Hello， sweetheart，” he said. Andwaited. The Rourke girl hesitated just a second. All the Irishheart in her was melting at the boyish impudence of the manbefore her. Then she lifted one hand and slapped his smoothcheek. It was a ringing slap. You saw the four marks of herfingers upon his face. Chet straightened， his blue eyes bluer.
Stasia looked up at him， her eyes wide. Then down at her ownhand， as if it belonged to somebody else. Her hand came up toher own face. She burst into tears， turned， and ran. And as sheran， and as she wept， she saw that Chet was still standing there，looking after her.
Next morning， when Stasia Rourke went by to work， ChetBall was standing at the foot of the pole， waiting.
They were to have been married that next June. But that nextJune Chet Ball， perched perilously on the branch of a tree in asmall woodsy spot somewhere in France， was one reason whythe American artillery in that same woodsy spot was gettingsuch a deadly range on the enemy. Chet’s costume was sodevised that even through field glasses （made in Germany） youcouldn’t tell where tree left off and Chet began.
Then， quite suddenly， the Germans got the range. The tree inwhich Chet was hidden came down with a crash， and Chet laythere， more than ever indiscernible among its tender foliage.
Which brings us back to the English garden， the yellowchicken， Miss Kate， and the letter.
His shattered leg was mended by one of those miracles ofmodern war surgery， though he never again would dig hisspurred heels into the pine of a G. L. & P. Company pole. Butthe other thing—they put it down under the broad generalhead of shell shock. In the lovely English garden they sethim to weaving and painting， as a means of soothing theshattered nerves. He had made everything from pottery jars tobead chains； from baskets to rugs. Slowly the tortured nerveshealed. But the doctors， when they stopped at Chet’s cot orchair， talked always of “the memory centre.” Chet seemedsatisfied to go on placidly painting toys or weaving chains withhis great， square-tipped fingers—the fingers that had wieldedthe pliers so cleverly in his pole-climbing days.
“It’s just something that only luck or an accident can mend，”
said the nerve specialist. “Time may do it—but I doubt it.
Sometimes just a word—the right word—will set the thing inmotion again. Does he get any letters？”
“His girl writes to him. Fine letters. But she doesn’t knowyet about—about this. I’ve written his letters for him. Sheknows now that his leg is healed and she wonders—”
That had been a month ago. To-day Miss Kate slit theenvelope postmarked Chicago. Chet was fingering the yellowwooden chicken， pride in his eyes. In Miss Kate’s eyes therewas a troubled， baffled look as she began to read：
Chet， dear， it’s raining in Chicago. And you know when itrains in Chicago， it’s wetter， and muddier， and rainier than anyplace in the world. Except maybe this Flanders we’re readingso much about. They say for rain and mud that place takes theprize.
I don’t know what I’m going on about rain and mud for， Chetdarling， when it’s you I’m thinking of. Nothing else and nobodyelse. Chet， I got a funny feeling there’s something you’rekeeping back from me. You’re hurt worse than just the leg.
Boy， dear， don’t you know it won’t make any difference withme how you look， or feel， or anything？ I don’t care how badyou’re smashed up. I’d rather have you without any features atall than any other man with two sets. Whatever’s happened tothe outside of you， they can’t change your insides. And you’rethe same man that called out to me， that day， “Hoo-hoo！ Hello，sweetheart！” and when I gave you a piece of my mind climbeddown off the pole， and put your face up to be slapped， Godbless the boy in you—
A sharp little sound from him. Miss Kate looked up， quickly.
Chet Ball was staring at the beady-eyed yellow chicken in hishand.
“What’s this thing？” he demanded in a strange voice.
Miss Kate answered him very quietly， trying to keep herown voice easy and natural. “That’s a toy chicken， cut out ofwood.”
“What’m I doin’ with it？”
“You’ve just finished painting it.”
Chet Ball held it in his great hand and stared at it for a briefmoment， struggling between anger and amusement. Andbetween anger and amusement he put it down on the tablenone too gently and stoop up， yawning a little.
“That’s a hell of a job for a he-man！” Then in utter contrition：
“Oh， beggin’ your pardon！ That was fierce！ I didn’t—”
But there was nothing shocked about the expression on MissKate’s face. She was registering joy—pure joy.