For a moment she was blind. The page resolved itself into a thick mass of black. She was in bed when the paper was brought to her with her coffee. She had been lying there sweetly thinking of him. Up to the instant her eyes fell upon the desolating headline she had been warm and snug and tingling with life just aroused. And then she was as cold as ice, stupefied. It was a long time before she was able to convince herself that the type was really telling her something that she would have to believe. He was going to the war! Thorpe was one of a half-dozen American surgeons who were going over on the steamer sailing that day to give their services to the French. The newspaper spoke of him in glowing terms. His name stood out above all the others, for he was the one most notably in the public eye at the moment. The others, just as brave and self-sacrificing as he, were briefly mentioned and that was all. He alone was in the headlines, he alone was discussed. No one was to be allowed to forget that he was the clever young surgeon who had saved the great Marraville. The account dwelt upon the grave personal sacrifice he was making in leaving New York just as the world was beginning to recognise his great genius and ability. Prosperity was knocking at his door, fame was holding out its hand to him, and yet he was casting aside all thought of self-aggrandisement, all personal ambition in order to go forth and serve humanity in fields where his name would never be mentioned except in a cry for help from strong men who had known no fear. Sailing that day! Anne finally grasped the meaning of the words. She would not see him again. He would go away without a word to her, without giving her the chance to say good-bye, despite her silly statement that she would never utter the words again where he was concerned. Slowly the warm glow returned to her blood. Her brain cleared, and she was able to think, to grasp at the probable significance of his action in deserting New York and his coveted opportunities. Something whispered to her that he was going away because of his own sufferings and not those of the poor wretches at the front. Her heart swelled with pity. There was no triumph in the thought that he was running away because of his love for her. She needed no such proof as this to convince her that his heart was more loyal to her than his mind would have it be. She cried a little ... and then got up and called for a messenger boy. This brief message went down to the ship: "God be with you. I still do not say good-bye, just God be with you always, as I shall be. Anne."