"Phil!" It came in a breathless little cry, like a bird's answer to its mate. Then the girl followed. Across the room she flew, to the bed, and down on her knees, hiding her face deep in the folds of coverlet and hospital shirt. Words came forth chokingly at last, like bubbles of air rising slowly to the surface. "Those letters--those awful letters! Just foolish things that didn't matter. One of the boys at the canteen--I used to wait on the table and make believe every soldier I served was mine, and I always wore my prettiest clothes--he said--the boy--that over there they didn't want anything but light stuff--those were his words--said a chap couldn't stand hearing that his girl was lonely.... He said to cut out all the blue funks and the worries; the light stuff helped to steady a chap's nerve. So I--" And then the boy lied like a soldier. "Don't, Clare darling. I knew all along you were playing off like a good sport. And it helped a lot. Gee! how it helped!" When Sheila looked in, hours later, the girl was still by the bed, her cheek on the pillow beside the boy's. It was a strangely illusive Leerie that met Peter that night in the rest-house after the ailing part of the San had been put safely to bed. Her eyes seemed to transcend the stars, and her face might have served for a young neophyte. As Peter saw, for the first time he glimpsed the signal Fate had been playing with so many days. "What's happened? Anything wrong with those cubs?" "Nothing. They're as right as right can be." Then with the old directness Sheila plunged headlong into the thing she knew must be done. "Man of mine, I'm going to hurt you. Can you forgive and still understand?" "I can try." Peter did his best to keep his voice from sounding too heavy, for a fear was gripping at his heart, and his eyes sought Sheila's face, pleading as he would never have let his lips plead. Sheila covered her eyes. She didn't want to see. It was too reminiscent of the little boy lying awake in a dark attic, afraid of sleep. "We have both done without happiness so long, don't you think we can do without it a little longer?" "I suppose so--if we must." Peter's voice was very dull. "But why? I've always had an idea that happiness was something like opportunity; it had to be snatched and held fast when it came your way, or you might never have another chance at it." Had Sheila brought him to the gates of Paradise only to bar them against his entering? he wondered. The woman who loved him understood and laid her hand on his breast as if she would stay the hurt there if she could. "It may make it easier if you know that the giving up is going to be hard for me, too. I've thought about that home of ours so long that I've begun to see it and all that goes with it. I even stumble upon it in my dreams. It's always at the end of a long, tired road, going uphill. If I thought I should have to give it up, I wouldn't have the courage to do what I'm going to now."