For a moment of despairing shock, before the storm broke, Lenore blindly wavered there, unable to move from the spot that had seen the beginning and the end of her brief hour of love.  Then she summoned strength to drag herself to her room, to lock her door.

Alone!  In the merciful darkness and silence and loneliness!...  She need not lie nor play false nor fool herself here.  She had let him go!  Inconceivable and monstrous truth!  For what?...  It was not now with her, that deceiving spirit which had made her brave.  But she was a woman.  She fell upon her knees beside her bed, shuddering.

That moment was the beginning of her sacrifice, the sacrifice she shared in common now with thousands of other women.  Before she had pitied; now she suffered.  And all that was sweet, loving, noble, and motherly—­all that was womanly—­rose to meet the stretch of gray future, with its endless suspense and torturing fear, its face of courage for the light of day, its despair for the lonely night, and its vague faith in the lessons of life, its possible and sustaining and eternal hope of God.

CHAPTER XXIV

    Camp—­, October—.

Dear Sister Lenore,—­It’s been long since I wrote you.  I’m sorry, dear.  But I haven’t just been in shape to write.  Have been transferred to a training-camp not far from New York.  I don’t like it.  The air is raw, penetrating, different from our high mountain air in the West.  So many gray, gloomy days!  And wet—­why you never saw a rain in Washington!  Fine bunch of boys, though.  We get up in the morning at 4:30.  Sweep the streets of the camp!  I’m glad to get up and sweep, for I’m near frozen long before daylight.  Yesterday I peeled potatoes till my hands were cramped.  Nine million spuds, I guess!  I’m wearing citizen’s clothes—­too thin, by gosh!—­and sleeping in a tent, on a canvas cot, with one blanket.  Wouldn’t care a—­(scoose me, sis)—­I wouldn’t mind if I had a real gun, and some real fighting to look forward to.  Some life, I don’t think!  But I meant to tell you why I’m here.

You remember how I always took to cowboys.  Well, I got chummy with a big cow puncher from Montana.  His name was Andersen.  Isn’t that queer?  His name same as mine except for the last e where I have o.  He’s a Swede or Norwegian.  True-blue American?  Well, I should smile.  Like all cowboys!  He’s six feet four, broad as a door, with a flat head of an Indian, and a huge, bulging chin.  Not real handsome, but say! he’s one of the finest fellows that ever lived.  We call him Montana.

There were a lot of rough-necks in our outfit, and right away I got in bad.  You know I never was much on holding my temper.  Anyway, I got licked powerful fine, as dad would say, and I’d been all beaten up but for Montana.  That made us two fast friends, and sure some enemies, you bet.