bitterness of a spirit tried beyond enduring.

With what enthusiasm did Philip, immediately after his heart-breaking
news, write of what the war might do for him; what avenues of advancement
it might open up, what splendid chances it would offer for success in his
career! Did he mean that to comfort her, she asked herself. Did he mean
it to divert her from the pain of the separation, to give her something
to hope for? She read the letter over and over again--yet no, she could
not, though her heart was so willing, find that meaning in it. It was
all Philip, Philip full of hope, purpose, prowess, ambition. Did he
think--did he think that that could ease the pain, could lighten the dark
day settling down on her? Could he imagine that anything might
compensate for his absence in the coming months, in this year of all
years in her life? His lengthened absence might be inevitable, it might
be fate, but could he not see the bitter cruelty of it? He had said that
he would be back with her again in two months; and now--ah, did he not
know!

As the weeks came and went again she felt that indeed he did not know--
or care, maybe.

Some natures cling to beliefs long after conviction has been shattered.
These are they of the limited imagination, the loyal, the pertinacious,
and the affectionate, the single-hearted children of habit; blind where
they do not wish to see, stubborn where their inclinations lie,
unamenable to reason, wholly held by legitimate obligations.

But Guida was not of these. Her brain and imagination were as strong as
her affections. Her incurable honesty was the deepest thing in her; she
did not know even how to deceive herself. As her experience deepened