"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