try; Nancy and Kathlyn thinking constantly of Frank and John; Lucy almost down and out from worrying about Paul; Kathlyn knowing just how Julius is missing his Hall of Natural History, and how its staff is praying for him; Nancy’s radio shut down tight, for so much as a thought of Station KBH was as a thrust of a sword. Days. Days. Days of shouting orators, blaring bands, troops from far away pausing at our big railway station, as girls, going through long trains of cars, took doughnuts and hot drinks. In Gadsby’s parlor window hung that famous “World War flag” of nothing but stars; nobody knowing at what instant a gold star would show upon it. A star for Bill; a star for Julius. Ah, Bill! Branton Hills’ fop! Bill Gadsby now in an ill-fitting and un-stylish khaki uniform.
Gadsby’s mansion had no brilliant night lights, now; just his parlor lamp and a small light or two in hallways or on stairways. Only our Mayor and his Lady, now worrying, worrying, worrying; but both of good, staunch old Colonial stock; and “carrying on” with good old Plymouth Rock stability; and Nancy’s baby, Lillian, too young to ask why Grandma “wasn’t hungry,” now; and didn’t laugh so much.
Kathlyn got into our big hospital, this stu-
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