do any more for me. I am like a
dog. The kinder you are to me the more I love you.... How dreadful to go
away to war--to violence and blood and death--to all that's
brutalizing--with my heart and mind full of love for a noble girl like
you!--If I come to love you any more I'll not be a man."

To Lenore he looked very much of a man, so tall and lithe and
white-faced, with his eyes of fire, his simplicity, and his tragic
refusal of all that was for most men the best of life. Whatever his
ideal, it was magnificent. Lenore had her chance then, but she was
absolutely unable to grasp it. Her blood beat thick and hot. If she
could only have been sure of herself! Or was it that she still cared too
much for herself? The moment had not come. And in her tumult there was a
fleeting fury at Dorn's blindness, at his reverence of her, that he dare
not touch her hand. Did he imagine she was stone?

"Let us say good night," she said. "You are worn out. And I am--not just
myself. To-morrow we'll be--good friends.... Father will take you to
your room."

Dorn pressed the hand she offered, and, saying good-night, he followed
her to the hall. Lenore tapped on the door of her father's study, then
opened it.

"Good night, dad. I'm going up," she said. "Will you look after Kurt?"

"Sure. Come in, son," replied her father.

Lenore felt Dorn's strange, intent gaze upon her as she passed him.
Lightly she ran up-stairs and turned at the top. The hall was bright and
Dorn stood full in the light, his face upturned. It still wore the
softer expression of those last few moments. Lenore waved her hand, and
he smiled. The moment was natural. Youth to youth! Lenore felt it. She
marveled that he did not. A sweet devil of wilful coquetry possessed
her.

"Oh, did you say you wouldn't go?" she softly called.

"I said only good night," he replied.

"If you _don't_ go, then you will never be General Dorn, will you? What
a pity!"

"I'll go. And then it will be--'Private Dorn--missing. No relatives,'"
he replied.

That froze Lenore. Her heart quaked. She gazed down upon him with all
her soul in her eyes. She knew it and did not care. But he could not
see.

"Good night, Kurt Dorn," she called, and ran to her room.

Composure did not come to her until she was ready for bed, with the
light out and in her old seat at the window. Night and silence and
starlight always lent Lenore strength. She prayed to them now and to the
spirit she knew dwelt beyon