They were at war, but they were generous to each other. Their war was a hidden and a sacred thing: it was not more nor less than the confronting of themselves upon the path they had helped hew, had helped each other walk. It was a hidden thing, but they had no desire to conceal it. They were open to each other insofar as each could be. They were the brother and sister who had waged life and war together. “Do you think it is helping David--this ‘friendship’ that will always be?” “I have not your acute moral sense, Cornelia. How should I know?” She bit her lips. “Why,” he asked with his ironic smile, “why don’t you ask if it is helping me!” “You have made it plain to me, Tom, that you do not need my help. Out of self-protection I had to withdraw thinking too much of that.” He nodded as if he understood and agreed. This hurt Cornelia. Even the words of contradiction would have been hostage to something precious. “David is growing masterful. That much I can say for our friendship. I told you how he turned Lunn and Durthal out of our place, one evening. What I did not tell you was this: the following day David was contrite. He wanted to apologize for the splendid thing he had done. I would not let him.” “Why?” “What he did was himself. It is himself I care for. I will not let him be a renegade to his own instincts.” She laughed at him. It was an effort, turning her bitterness to laughter. “In the contradiction, you simply had a higher sort of triumph. Don’t you think I understand? You labor to beat him down and break him. When you see signs of your work you turn about. When you get him beaten and broken at last, doubtless you will have no more use for him.” “Doubtless, Cornelia.” “Tom! Leave David alone!” His cutting calm had parted her restraint. All of her fear threatened to burst out. She was close to Tom, beseeching. In a moment, her hands would be suppliant. He let her plead. “Do that for me, Tom. Leave him! Insult him! Turn him away!” “I often try to. It’s no use. I can sustain no mood long enough for that.” She was blinded by his words into a sense of hope. “Oh, a little longer! Send him to me. He never comes to me, now. He will if you send him. I’ll help you, Tom.” She stopped. She saw the folly of her outburst. Was there not war between them? He was there with his irony. “What have you, really, against our friendship? There is something unreasonable in this. What is it? Of course, I shall send him to you. I promise that.” Never had she seen him so contained before her. He was winning. A flourish and a dare in his promise to send him. She pressed her lips with hands that had been almost suppliant before her brother. She would accept his ironic bounty: turn it against him. Many a battle was lost through excess of confidence. She could not answer his questions. “You talk, positively, Sister, as if I were ruining the lad,--instead of slowly bringing him up.” “Bringing him up to what?” “Well, to what? I ask you?”