"Home!" she spoke the word tenderly. "I wonder what it's like ... I've never known." He drew his breath sharply. "Aleta--will you marry me?" Her eyes filled but she did not answer. Presently she shook her head. He looked at her dumbly, questioning. "You don't love me, Frank," she said at last. He could not answer her. His eyes were on the ground. A hundred thoughts came to his mind; thoughts of an almost overwhelming tenderness; thoughts of reverence for her; of affection, comradeship. But they were not the right thoughts. They were not what she wanted. Presently they turned and went toward the town together. * * * * * A Fairyland of gardens and lagoons sprung into existence. Great artists labored with a kind of beauty-madness in its making. Nine years after San Francisco lay in ashes its doors opened to the world. From Ruins had grown a Great Dream, one so beautiful and strong, it seemed unreal. Aleta and Frank went often. To them the Exposition was a rhapsody of silent music and they seldom broke its harmonies with speech. Frank had not recurred to the question he had asked on Presidio Hill. But out of it had come an unspoken compact, a comradeship of spirit that was very sweet. They stood one day on the margin of Fine Arts Lagoon, gazing down at the marvelous reflections of the great dome and its pillared colonnade. "Frank," the girl said almost in a whisper, "I believe that Love is God's heart, beating, beating ... through the Whole of Life." He turned and saw that her eyes were radiant. "And I think that when we feel its rhythm in us, it's like a call. A call to--" "What?" he asked abashed. "Service.... Frank," she faced him questioningly, half fearful. "You'll forgive me, won't you? I--I'm going away." She expected protest, exclamation. Instead he asked her, very quietly: "To Europe, Aleta? The Red Cross?" "Yes," she said, surprised. "How did you know?" "I--I'm going, myself. As a stretcher bearer." "Then--" her eyes were stars, "you've felt it, too?" He nodded. * * * * * On the deck of an outbound steamer stood two figures. The sky was gray. Drifts of fog hung plume-like over Alcatraz, veiled the Exposition domes and turrets in a mystic glory. Sometimes it was like a great white nothingness; then, as if by magic, Color, Forms and Beauty leaped forth like some startling vision from a Land of Make Believe. The woman at the stern-rail stretched forth her arms. "Goodbye," her words were like a song, a song of heartbreak, mixed with exultation. "Goodbye, Oh my City of Dreams!" "We will come back," said the man shakily. "We will come with new peace in our hearts." "Perhaps," she replied, "but it will not matter. San Francisco will go on, big, generous, unafraid in its sins and virtues. Oh, Frank, I love it, don't you? I want it to be the greatest city in the world!"