“Why, _you_ know.” He seemed surprised that she should ask. “At supper, for helping me out. I mean for sort of bringing me into things. After what you did, they saw I was there. But--_you_ know,” he broke off. “Yes, I know,” she answered. “You’ve known right from the first,” he said, daring to speak in the half obscuring dark. “When you’re there, I always know you understand. She--I mean--” he cut himself off; “some people seem to sort of strangle me. I don’t know how it is, but someway, I just can’t get to the surface with them.” “Can’t get to the surface?” she asked quickly. “Yes. I mean, to get into the world at all. It was like I wasn’t all in; they seem to slam a door in my face, an’ squeeze me out. I’m only half alive with them. They go right along as though I wasn’t there. I don’t know what it is.” He paused uncertainly, as though trying to blaze a pathway of words through a maze of difficult and heretofore unexpressed thoughts. “I reckon it’s my fault someway--I don’t know--or maybe it’s because I’m insignificant-looking an’ small--though I’m really only a little bit below average height--but folks go along an’ don’t even seem to see me.” “I know: I understand,” she breathed. “Yes,” he whispered sharply, “you do know. That’s just it. You’ve understood right from the first! There was never anybody else who ever did.” “It’s--it’s the same with me,” she confessed, a thrill of emotion in her voice. “That’s why I understand. Some folks just choke me--an’ I--someway, I don’t know how to stand up against them.” “Ain’t that funny?” He spoke wonderingly. “Ain’t it funny? I thought I was the only one in the world that way.” “I know. I thought that, too.” They spoke slowly, little pauses between each sentence, as they felt their way on this dim pathway out toward each other. When suddenly the play came to an end, the theatre lights flashed up, and they heard Elizabeth’s loud confident laugh, they were startled and astray, as though they had come back into a strange world. XI That was a strained summer in Hart’s Run, an uneasy, nervous war-summer, throwing the village people out of all their accustomed ways, as they gave themselves to the business of war. Speakers were sent to them for the various “drives,” from Red River and even occasionally from Washington as well. Judge Dean spoke to them in his soft slow voice--oratory strangely different and much more impressive than the flamboyant outbursts of the ordinary campaign-days. “Strictly speaking,” he said softly, “your country has no business at the present time but the business of killing Huns; and strictly speaking, _you_ have no business but the business of killing Huns.”