“I’ve never had a real love affair, mother-mine. But it’s not because I’ve never wanted to love. It’s because I could never seem to throw myself away. I had to save myself—for him! Maybe I’m a silly little idealist, mother-mine. But I’ve dreamed so much! I couldn’t be satisfied with any one but him! I couldn’t! I couldn’t!” “And you mustn’t, dear,” declared Gracia Theddon. III It was nearly midnight. “Mother,” cried the girl fiercely as she walked the room, “I’ve got to get into this thing! I’ve got to have some part in this war! Some great, vital, strength-sapping part! I can’t stay here merely folding bandages and waiting, waiting, waiting! I’ve got to do something—with my hands, my heart—all that I am or can be! They’re going away—the boys—to die—to pour themselves out—to give their all to make a better and safer world. And I can’t merely wait and smugly accept the fruits of their sacrifice. I’m going to get in!” “But what can you do, my dear? Your studies aren’t yet completed. They won’t take you as a doctor. You know nothing in the way of a trade or a——” “I’ll find a place! I’ll make a place! Maybe off over the rim of the world I’ll find my Amethyst Moment—though it’s only for a moment! I’ve got to get in!” “God will it!” whispered Gracia Theddon, as somewhere a clock struck twelve—deep-toned and mellow. She had to get into the war! Madelaine went to her room. Features deathly pale with all the emotions the evening had wrought, she turned down the heavy lid of her desk and pulled on the tiny chain of her writing lamp. But she did not write. She had nothing to write. She sat before her desk, elbows upon it, strong, lithe fingers covering her face. Finally, with a breath as though for strength, she reached into one of the lower pigeonholes and drew forth a packet of letters. Among them she found one that she sought. It had a Chicago postmark.