all the things you have ever done are little
compared to this? That men and women are better and bigger than you
have believed?"

"If anyone could make me feel it," he said, "it would be you."

When she had gone, he wrote letters.

He wrote to Jean--he wrote every day to Jean.

He wrote to Hilda.

"You are splendidly fitted for just the thing that you are doing. Men
come and go and you care for their wounds. But we have to care here
for more than men's bodies, we care for their minds and souls--we piece
them together, as it were. And we need women who believe that God's in
his Heaven. And you don't believe it, Hilda. I fancy that you see in
every man his particular devil, and like to lure it out for him to look
at--"

He stopped there. He could see her reading what he had written. She
would laugh a little, and write back:

"Are you any better than I? If I am too black to herd with the white
sheep, what of you; aren't you tarred with the same brush--?"

He tore up the letter and sent a brief note. Why explain what he was
feeling to Hilda? She was of those who would never know nor understand.

And he felt the need tonight of understanding--of sympathy.

And so he wrote to Emily.

CHAPTER XXV

WHITE VIOLETS

Bruce McKenzie's letter arriving in due time at the Toy Shop, found
Emily very busy. There were many women to be instructed how to do
things with gauze and muslin and cotton, so she tucked the letter in
her apron pocket. But all day her mind went to it, as a feast to be
deferred until the time came to enjoy it.

In the afternoon Ulrich Stoelle arrived, bearing the inevitable tissue
paper parcel.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asked.

"Thursday."

"There are always Thursdays. But this is a special Thursday."

"Is it?"

"And you ask me like that? It is a Thursday for valentines."

"Of course. But how could you expect me to remember? Nobody ever
sends me valentines."

"My father has sent you one." It was a heart-shaped basket of pink
roses; "but mine I couldn't bring. You must come and see it. Will you
dine with us tonight?"

"Oh, I am so busy."

"You are not too busy for that. Let your little Jean take charge."

Jean, all in white with her white veil and red crosses was more than
ever like a little nun. She was remote, too, like a nun, wrapped not
in the contemplation of her religion, but of her love.

She still made toys, and the proceeds of the sal