But Arthur Lane did not speak. He saw Evans through a haze of hero-worship. He saw him, too, with a halo of martyrdom. The glass of the photograph on the mantel had been mended. There was the young soldier handsome and brave in his uniform. And here was his ghost—come back to say that it was all—worth while....
Association with these boys cleared up many things for Evans. They had ideals which must not be shattered. Not to their young eagerness must be brought the pessimism of a disordered mind—and tortured soul. They must have the truth. And the truth was this. That men who had laid down their lives to save others had seen an unforgetful vision. He wondered how many of his comrades, even now, in the cynicism of after-war propaganda would sacrifice the memory of that high moment....
Besides the boys, Evans had another friend. He played a whimsical game with the scarecrow. He went often and leaned over the fence that shut in the frozen field. He hunted up new clothes and hung them on the shaking figure—an overcoat and a soft hat. It seemed a charitable thing to clothe him with warmth. In due time someone stole the overcoat, and Evans found the poor thing stripped. It gave him a sense of shock to find two crossed sticks where once had been the semblance of a man. But he tried again. This time with an old bathrobe and a disreputable cap. “It will keep you warm until spring, old chap....”
The scarecrow and his sartorial changes became a matter of much discussion among the negroes. Since Evans’ visits were nocturnal, the whole thing had an effect of mystery until the bathrobe proclaimed its owner. “Mist’ Evans done woh’ dat e’vy day,” old Mary told Mrs. Follette. “Whuffor he dress up dat ol’ sca’crow in de fiel’?”
“What scarecrow?”
Old Mary explained, and that night Mrs. Follette said to her son, “The darkies are getting superstitions. Did you really do it?”
His somber eyes were lighted for a moment. “It’s just a whim of mine, Mumsie. I had a sort of fellow feeling——”
“Not as queer as you might think.” He went back to his book. No one but Jane should know the truth.
And so he played the game. Working in his office, dancing with Edith and Baldy, chumming with the boys, dressing up the scarecrow. It seemed sometimes a desperate game—there were hours in which he wrestled with doubts. Could he ever get back? Could he? There were times when it seemed he could not. There were nights when he did not sleep. Hours that he spent on his knees....