“No. You only seem old to me. I suppose that’s because you have had to do so much in so short a time. But I’m older, too. It’s a sad country—did you ever stop to think how few people smile, down here in these mountains?” “Yes, I know; and you know, now. Well, I suppose you’ll go away and forget us. We’ve been forgotten, more than a hundred years. That’s hard—to be forgotten.” “Do you think that of me?” she said, still staring straight down the valley. “I hardly know what to think of you,” said he, deliberately. “You are not like any woman I ever knew.” He flushed, suddenly remembering he had told her he never had known but three women in his life. “Well, be fair, at least. Be sure you know my point of view. This work ought not to stop.” She was trying to look at him from the corner of her eye. “The Lord has built that building up on the hill, Mrs. Haddon,” answered David Joslin. “I suppose the Lord will continue it or destroy it. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” She half turned her face toward him now as she replied. “I’ve told you I’ve been a useless woman all my life. Well, just the other day I saw a child—a little child, out in the hills—it lived wild, in a cave. I held, its hand right in mine, this way—don’t you see? And then, I thought, there were hundreds of them—hundreds, all through these hills.” She was flushing. “Yes,” said he; “many hundreds.” “Then I thought of the money that’s mine that maybe oughtn’t all to be mine. You see, I’ve counsel—lawyers—that sort of thing—men who would help me in anything I asked. Suppose we had some more buildings, and plenty of teachers after a time?” He did not make any answer at all, and she was obliged to go on unaided. “In this awful time of the world, Mr. Joslin,” said she, “everyone ought to be useful. We’ll need more good citizens in America. All of us women ought to work in some way. The country must go on, until we’ve won. Where could I be more useful than here? Don’t you think I could keep the work going some way until—until you came back, David Joslin?” Still he did not answer, and still she went on, struggling somewhat desperately with his native reticence and her own. “Why, they say this is a war for democracy, don’t you know? And where could we fight better for democracy? Wasn’t that your ambition—wasn’t that your dream?” “Yes!” suddenly he exclaimed, hoarsely. “That was my dream! You know how it ended—you know why. I killed my own school, you know how.” “Yes—you’ve spoken very freely. It’s just as well. These are days when there’s no time to be lost. And I’d like you to know, at least how much I’ve marveled at what you’ve done.” “Marveled!” said he. “It’s I who have marveled. But what you say—if you could keep the school going—why, _that’s_ a miracle!” “Well,” said Marcia Haddon quietly, “you’ve always spoken of miracles as matter of course.”