So his soul and her happiness were in the balance weighed against a woman’s power.  It seemed to Lenore that she felt hopelessly unable to carry the issue to victory; and yet, on the other hand, a tumultuous and wonderful sweetness of sensation called to her, insidiously, of the infallible potency of love.  What could she do to save Dorn’s life and his soul?  There was only one answer to that.  She would do anything.  She must make him love her to the extent that he would have no will to carry out this desperate intent.  There was little time to do that.  The gradual growth of affection through intimacy and understanding was not possible here.  It must come as a flash of lightning.  She must bewilder him with the revelation of her love, and then by all its incalculable power hold him there.

It was her father’s wish; it would be the salvation of Dorn; it meant all to her.  But if to keep him there would make him a slacker, Lenore swore she would die before lifting her lips to his.  The government would rather he stayed to raise wheat than go out and fight men.  Lenore saw the sanity, the cardinal importance of that, as her father saw it.  So from all sides she was justified.  And sitting there in the darkness and silence, with the cool wind in her face, she vowed she would be all woman, all sweetness, all love, all passion, all that was feminine and terrible, to keep Dorn from going to war.

CHAPTER XIX

Lenore awakened early.  The morning seemed golden.  Birds were singing at her window.  What did that day hold in store for her?  She pressed a hand hard on her heart as if to hold it still.  But her heart went right on, swift, exultant, throbbing with a fullness that was almost pain.

Early as she awakened, it was, nevertheless, late when she could direct her reluctant steps down-stairs.  She had welcomed every little suggestion and task to delay the facing of her ordeal.

There was merriment in the sitting-room, and Dorn’s laugh made her glad.  The girls were at him, and her father’s pleasant, deep voice chimed in.  Evidently there was a controversy as to who should have the society of the guest.  They had all been to breakfast.  Mrs. Anderson expressed surprise at Lenore’s tardiness, and said she had been called twice.  Lenore had heard nothing except the birds and the music of her thoughts.  She peeped into the sitting-room.

“Didn’t you bring me anything?” Kathleen was inquiring of Dorn.

Dorn was flushed and smiling.  Anderson stood beaming upon them, and Rose appeared to be inclined toward jealousy.

“Why—­you see—­I didn’t even know Lenore had a little sister,” Dorn explained.

“Oh!” exclaimed Kathleen, evidently satisfied.  “All Lenorry’s beaux bring me things.  But I believe I’m going to like you best.”