d it had left her weak and
trembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted to
shut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope that
the ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness of
her room.

"I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I was
never so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when--when I saw that
terrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any love
left in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things?
Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soul
of the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid his
comrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower to
bear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wished
that Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands and
repeat the words after me. I--I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if I
didn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realize
how splendid and disinterested your friendship is."

She stopped. Her eyes were turned towards the little bed where Paul was
sleeping, while one of her hands had sought her forehead again, as if
the pain had returned. And, as I looked at her, I became uneasy with a
sense that she esteemed me too highly and gave me credit I didn't and
couldn't deserve, for, in the heart of me, I knew I loved her with such
intensity of feeling that it hurt me with the bitterest of pangs.

Ay! She had said it. There could be no other love for her! The old one
was still strong in her soul, for the man she would never see again but
whose image was graven so deep in her memory that he was still with her,
a vision upstanding though silent, listening to the prayers she said for
him and, perhaps, in her sleep, no longer a mute wraith of the beloved,
but one who whispered again softly some of the words of long ago. I
would fain, also, have prayed for courage never to bare my heart to her,
for strength enabling me to remain the disinterested friend she deemed
me, to whom she could at least give affection and trust.

"It is late, David," she finally said. "Good night. I think I will read
that last chapter of the 'Land o' Love,' again, before I go to sleep.
It will show me a world full of fine big things and bring the
blessedness of new hope."

"I hope it will, my dear Frances," I answered, and returned to my room
where I touched a