He contradicted her. “No, it isn’t. I’m not doing it from any splendid motives whatever. I’m going just to—to try and get out of myself. Don’t you see—you two? You must see. I’m—I’m sunk in myself; I’ve never been anything else. That’s what’s been the matter with me. That’s why I never made any friends. That’s why you, Frank, have never really cared a straw about me—in spite of all the ways I’ve made up to you; and why you, Regina, can hardly stand me. But, by God! you’re both going to!” With this flash of excitement I sprang up, laying my hand on his arm. “We care for you already, old man.” “That’s not the point. I’ve—I’ve got to care for myself. I’ve got to find some sort of self-respect.” But Regina, too, sprang up, joining us where we stood on the hearth-rug. She didn’t touch him; she only stood before him with hands clasped in front of her. “Stephen dear, you’re not doing any more heart-searching than Frank and I are doing; or than every true American is doing all through the country. What you say Mr. Christian told you the other night is more or less consciously in everybody’s soul. We know we’re called to the judgment seat; and at the judgment seat we stand. That’s all there is to it. Marriage and giving in marriage for people like us must wait. It’s become unimportant. There are people—younger than we are for the most part—to whom it comes first. But for us, with our experience—each of us—you with yours, Frank with his, I with mine—well, we have other work to do. We must see this great thing through before we can give our attention to ourselves. And we shall see it through, sha’n’t we, by doing as you say? We must give everything up—and wait. Then we shall probably find our difficulties solved for us. I often think that patience—the power to wait and be confident—is the most stupendous force in the world.” And with few more words than this we left her. I went first, giving them a little time alone together. But I hadn’t gone very far before, on accidentally turning round, I saw Cantyre coming down the steps. _CHAPTER XXXIV_ It was just a year later that a secret but profound misgiving in my heart began to be dispelled. I call it secret because it was unacknowledged by myself. It would never, I believe, have come to me of its own accord; it was suggested from without, and even so I didn’t harbor it consciously. It was only with the news of Seicheprey, of which the details began to come in toward the end of April, 1918, that I knew that in the wheat of my hopes and confidences there had been tares of anxiety and fear.