them as are not too scared to listen, he tells them of the danger of
fear and of the necessity for calmness and courage.

"We must face and fight this thing like men," he cries, in that deep,
din-conquering voice that has served the Ingerfields in good stead on
many a steel-swept field, on many a storm-struck sea; "there must be
no cowardly selfishness, no faint-hearted despair. If we've got to
die we'll die; but please God we'll live. Anyhow, we will stick
together, and help each other. I mean to stop here with you, and do
what I can for you. None of my people shall want."

John Ingerfield ceases, and as the vibrations of his strong tones
roll away a sweet voice from beside him rises clear and firm:-

"I have come down to be with you also, and to help my husband. I
shall take charge of the nursing and tending of your sick, and I hope
I shall be of some real use to you. My husband and I are so sorry
for you in your trouble. I know you will be brave and patient. We
will all do our best, and be hopeful."

He turns, half expecting to see only the empty air and to wonder at
the delirium in his brain. She puts her hand in his, and their eyes
meet; and in that moment, for the first time in their lives, these
two see one another.

They speak no word. There is no opportunity for words. There is
work to be done, and done quickly, and Anne grasps it with the greed
of a woman long hungry for the joy of doing. As John watches her
moving swiftly and quietly through the bewildered throng,
questioning, comforting, gently compelling, the thought comes to him,