“Miss Anderson, I’d rather not—­not meet your mother and sisters to-night,” said Dorn.  “I’m upset.  Won’t it be all right to wait till to-morrow?”

“Surely.  But I think they’ve gone to bed,” replied Lenore, as she glanced into the dark sitting-room.  “So they have....  Come, let us go into the parlor.”

Lenore turned on the shaded lights in the beautiful room.  How inexplicable was the feeling of being alone with him, yet utterly free of the torment that had possessed her before!  She seemed to have divined an almost insurmountable obstacle in Dorn’s will.  She did not have her father’s assurance.  It made her tremble to realize her responsibility —­that her father’s earnest wishes and her future of love or woe depended entirely upon what she said and did.  But she felt that indeed she had become a woman.  And it would take a woman’s wit and charm and love to change this tragic boy.

“Miss—­Anderson,” he began, brokenly, with restraint let down, “your father—­doesn’t understand.  I’ve got to go....  And even if I am spared—­I couldn’t ever come back....  To work for him—­all the time in love with you—­I couldn’t stand it....  He’s so good.  I know I could care for him, too....  Oh, I thought I was bitterly resigned—­hard—­inhuman.  But all this makes it—­so—­so much worse.”

He sat down heavily, and, completely unnerved, he covered his face with his hands.  His shoulders heaved and short, strangled sobs broke from him.

Lenore had to overcome a rush of tenderness.  It was all she could do to keep from dropping to her knees beside him and slipping her arms around his neck.  In her agitation she could not decide whether that would be womanly or not; only, she must make no mistakes.  A hot, sweet flush went over her when she thought that always as a last resort she could reveal her secret and use her power.  What would he do when he discovered she loved him?

“Kurt, I understand,” she said, softly, and put a hand on his shoulder.  And she stood thus beside him, sadly troubled, vaguely divining that her presence was helpful, until he recovered his composure.  As he raised his head and wiped tears from his eyes he made no excuses for his weakness, nor did he show any shame.

“Miss Anderson—­” he began.

“Please call me Lenore.  I feel so—­so stiff when you are formal.  My friends call me Lenore,” she said.

“You mean—­you consider me your friend?” he queried.

“Indeed I do,” she replied, smiling.

“I—­I’m afraid I misunderstood your asking me to visit you,” he said.  “I thank you.  I’m proud and glad that you call me your friend.  It will be splendid to remember—­when I am over there.”

“I wonder if we could talk of anything except trouble and war,” replied Lenore, plaintively.  “If we can’t, then let’s look at the bright side.”

“Is there a bright side?” he asked, with his sad smile.

“Every cloud, you know....  For instance, if you go to war—­”