"Dad!... I--I could not!" replied Lenore. She was strangely realizing an indefinable change in herself. "I can't try to keep him from going to war. I never thought of that since--since we confessed our love.... But it's made some difference.... It'll kill me, I think, to let him go--but I'd die before I'd ask him to stay home." "Ah-huh!" sighed Anderson, and, releasing her, he began to pace the room. "I don't begin to understand you, girl. But I respect your feelin's. It's a hell of a muddle!... I'd forgotten the war myself while chasin' off them I.W.W.'s.... But this war has _got_ to be reckoned with!... Send Dorn to me!" Lenore found Dorn playing with Kathleen. These two had become as brother and sister. "Kurt, dad wants to see you," said Lenore seriously. Dorn looked startled, and the light of fun on his face changed to a sober concern. "You told him?" "Yes, Kurt, I told him what little I had to tell." He gave her a strange glance and then slowly went toward her father's study. Lenore made a futile attempt to be patient. She heard her father's deep voice, full and earnest, and she heard Dorn's quick, passionate response. She wondered what this interview meant. Anderson was not one to give up easily. He had set his heart upon holding this capable young man in the great interests of the wheat business. Lenore could not understand why she was not praying that he be successful. But she was not. It was inexplicable and puzzling--this change in her--this end of her selfishness. Yet she shrank in terror from an impinging sacrifice. She thrust the thought from her with passionate physical gesture and with stern effort of will. Dorn was closeted with her father for over an hour. When he came out he was white, but apparently composed. Lenore had never seen his eyes so piercing as when they rested upon her. "Whew!" he exclaimed, and wiped his face. "Your father has my poor old dad--what does Kathleen say?--skinned to a frazzle!" "What did he say?" asked Lenore, anxiously. "A lot--and just as if I didn't know it all better than he knows," replied Dorn, sadly. "The importance of wheat; his three ranches and nobody to run them; his growing years; my future and a great opportunity as one of the big wheat men of the Northwest; the present need of the government; his only son gone to war, which was enough for his family.... And then he spoke of you--heiress to 'Many Waters'--what a splendid, noble girl you were--like your mother! What a shame to ruin your happiness--your future!... He said you'd make the sweetest of wives--the truest of mothers!... Oh, my God!" Lenore turned away her face, shocked to her heart by his tragic passion. Dorn was silent for what seemed a long time. "And--then he cussed me--hard--as no doubt I deserved," added Dorn. "But--what did you say?" she whispered. "I said a lot, too," replied Dorn, remorsefully. "Did--did you--?" began Lenore, and broke off, unable to finish.