For a sickening moment, Audrey thought of Chris. War had made Chris, but

it had killed him, too.

"Have you thought of one thing?" she asked. "That in trying to make this

young man, whoever it is, he may be hurt, or even worse?"

"He would have to take his chance, like the rest."

She went a little pale, however. Audrey impulsively put an arm around

her.

"And this--woman is the little long-legged girl who used to give signals

to her father when the sermon was too long! Now--what can I do about

this youth who can't make up his own mind?"

"You can talk to his mother."

"If I know his mother--? and I think I do--it won't do the slightest

good."

"Then his father. You are great friends, aren't you?"

Even this indirect mention of Clayton made Audrey's hands tremble. She

put them behind her.

"We are very good friends," she said. But Delight was too engrossed to

notice the deeper note in her voice. "I'll see what I can do. But don't

count on me too much. You spoke of a girl. I suppose I know who it is."

"Probably. It is Marion Hayden. He is engaged to her."

And again Audrey marveled at her poise, for Delight's little tragedy was

clear by that time. Clear, and very sad.

"I can't imagine his really being in love with her."

"But he must be. They are engaged."

Audrey smiled at the simple philosophy of nineteen, smiled and was

extremely touched. How brave the child was! Audrey's own courageous

heart rather swelled in admiration.

But after Delight had gone, she felt depressed again, and very tired.

How badly these things were handled! How strange it was that love so

often brought suffering! Great loves were almost always great tragedies.

Perhaps it was because love was never truly great until the element of

sacrifice entered into it.

Her own high courage failed her somewhat. During these recent days when,

struggling against very real stage fright, she made her husky, wholly

earnest but rather nervous little appeals to the crowds before the

enlisting stations, she got along bravely enough during the day. But the

night found her sad, unutterably depressed.

At these times she was haunted by a fear that persisted against all her

arguments. In Washington Clayton had not looked well. He had been

very tired and white, and some of his natural buoyancy seemed to have

deserted him. He needed caring for, she would reflect bitterly. There

should be some one to look after him. He was tired and anxious, but it

took the eyes of love to see it. Natalie would never notice, and would

consider it a grievance if she did. The fiercely, maternal tenderness

of the childless woman for the man she loves kept her awake at night

staring into the darkness and visualizing terrible things. Clayton ill,

and she unable to go to him. Ill, and wanting her, and unable to ask for

her.




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