My heart grew bitter in me when the news came of Harry's operation.
I had been half relieved when I heard that he was wounded, and that
the wound was not dangerous. For the grim alternative was seldom out
of my thoughts, and at least his dear life was safe. Now I was
crushed by the brave, pathetic letter in which he told me that his
right leg had been amputated, and that he was lucky to get off so
easily. That made me rebellious and very, very bitter. And it was
against God that I felt worst--God who had allowed this unthinkable
thing to be.

Harry a cripple! Harry of all people! I could not imagine it, nor
accept it, nor even face the truth of it. And away at the bottom of
my heart lurked the thought that it had been better for himself that
he had died in the strength and beauty of his manhood. Why should
his spirit be doomed to live on in a ruined home?

Harry is my only brother, and he has been my hero always. Manliness,
strength, courage, unselfishness--I know what these things mean;
they mean Harry. And of course I was proud when he got his double
blue at Cambridge. Cricket and football were more than pastimes to
him. He put his heart and soul into them, and when he made 106 not
out against Oxford he was as happy as if he had found a new continent.
And now the great athlete, the pride of his College, the big
clean-limbed giant was a cripple. I could not weep for it, because I
could not believe it. I took the thought and flung it from me. And
then I picked it up again, and gazed at it with hard, unseeing eyes.
It was at that time I stopped praying. What was prayer but a mockery,
if Harry was maimed?