He breathed deeply and as the eyes of Jarvis caught his a sympathetic glance passed between them.
"Yes," said Jarvis, as if he understood completely, "the war goes around us.

There is nothing to fight about here.

But come into the house.
This is my sister, the mother of that lunkhead, Ike, and here is my grandmother." He paused before the bent figure of an old, old woman, sitting in a rocking chair beside the chimney, beside which a fire glowed and blazed.
Her chin rested on one hand, and she was staring into the coals.
"Grandmother," said Jarvis very gently, "the great-grandson of the great Henry Ware that you used to know was here last spring, and now the great-grandson of his friend, Paul Cotter, has come, too." The withered form straightened and she stood up.

Fire came into the old, old eyes that regarded Dick so intently.
"Aye," she said, "you speak the truth, grandson.

It is Paul Cotter's own face.