The first motor rolled up to the door, Billy was called for, so he stuffed the letter into his pocket and hurried out. They were swept away through the crowded streets of Chicago, where spring was already showing in the green grass and blooming crocuses of the little squares. It was even more in evidence in Lincoln Park where the shrubs and trees were putting out their new leaves and flowers were blooming all along the way. It made one feel queer and restless, Billy thought, as though one wanted something very badly and did not quite know what it was. It seemed strange how hard it was to make up his mind just what he was going to do.
The lake was very blue there on their right hand as they drove along the Sheridan Road sweeping constantly through neat suburbs, some large, some small, but all alike in one thing: that every one in the world was busy planting a garden. They passed through bits of real country with fields and meadows and pasture lands, and stopped at last before a big iron gate that guarded an enclosure full of brick buildings, wide, smooth lawns and many winding roads.
“They won’t let us in on account of the war
