There was something simple and motherly about her, that became her, and warmed Lane's cold heart. He remembered that she had always preferred boys to girls, and regretted she had not been the mother of boys. So Lane talked to her, glad to find that the most ordinary news of the service and his comrades interested her very much. The instant she espied his _Croix de Guerre_ he seemed lifted higher in her estimation. Yet she had the delicacy not to question him about that. In fact, after ten minutes with her, Lane had to reproach himself for the hostility with which he had come. At length she rose with evident reluctance. "You want to see Helen. Shall I send her down here or will you go up to her studio?" "I think I'd like to go up," replied Lane. "If I were you, I would," advised Mrs. Wrapp. "I'd like your opinion--of, well, what you'll see. Since you left home, Daren, we've been turned topsy-turvy. I'm old-fashioned. I can't get used to these goings-on. These young people 'get my goat,' as Helen expresses it." "I'm hopelessly behind the times, I've seen that already," rejoined Lane. "Daren, I respect you for it. There was a time when I objected to your courting Helen. But I couldn't see into the future. I'm sorry now she broke her engagement to you." "I--thank you, Mrs. Wrapp," said Lane, with agitation. "But of course Helen was right. She was too young.... And even if she had been--been true to me--I would have freed her upon my return." "Indeed. And why, Daren?" "Because I'll never be well again," he replied sadly. "Boy, don't say that!" she appealed, with a hand going to his shoulder. In the poignancy of the moment Lane lost his reserve and told her the truth of his condition, even going so far as to place her hand so she felt the great bayonet hole in his back. Her silence then was more expressive than any speech. She had the look of a woman in whom conscience was a reality. And Lane divined that she felt she and her daughter, and all other women of this distraught land, owed him and his comrades a debt which could never be paid. For once she expressed dignity and sweetness and genuine sorrow. "You shock me, Daren. But words are useless. I hope and pray you're wrong. But right or wrong--you're a real American--like our splendid forefathers. Thank God _that_ spirit still survives. It is our only hope." Lane crossed to the window and looked out, slowly conscious of resurging self-control. It was well that he had met Mrs. Wrapp first, for she gave him what he needed. His bleeding vanity, his pride trampled in the dirt, his betrayed faith, his unquenchable spirit of hope for some far-future good--these were not secrets he could hide from every one.