“I reckon.  But I’m growin’ old an’ mebbe I’ve quit.”

“No, dad, you’ll never quit.  Suppose all we Americans quit.  That’d mean a German victory.  Never!  Never!  Never!”

“By God! you’re right!” he ejaculated, with the trembling strain of his face suddenly fixing.  Blood and life shot into his eyes.  He got up heavily and began to stride to and fro before her.  “You see clearer than me.  You always did, Lenore.”

“I’m beginning to see, but I can’t tell you,” replied Lenore, closing her eyes.  Indeed, there seemed a colossal vision before her, veiled and strange.  “Whatever happens, we cannot break.  It’s because of the war.  We have our tasks—­greater now than ever we believe could be thrust upon us.  Yours to show men what you are made of!  To raise wheat as never before in your life!  Mine to show my sisters and my friends—­all the women—­what their duty is.  We must sacrifice, work, prepare, and fight for the future.”

“I reckon,” he nodded solemnly.  “Loss of mother an’ Jim changes this damned war.  Whatever’s in my power to do must go on.  So some one can take it up when I—­”

“That’s the great conception, dad,” added Lenore, earnestly.  “We are tragically awakened.  We’ve been surprised—­terribly struck in the dark.  Something monstrous and horrible!...  I can feel the menace in it for all—­over every family in this broad land.”

“Lenore, you said once that Jim—­Now, how’d you know it was all over for him?”

“A woman’s heart, dad.  When I said good-by to Jim I knew it was good-by forever.”

“Did you feel that way about Kurt Dorn?”

“No.  He will come back to me.  I dream it.  It’s in my spirit—­my instinct of life, my flesh-and-blood life of the future—­it’s in my belief in God.  Kurt Dorn’s ordeal will be worse than death for him.  But I believe as I pray—­that he will come home alive.”

“Then, after all, you do hope,” said her father.  “Lenore, when I was down East, I seen what women were doin’.  The bad women are good an’ the good women are great.  I think women have more to do with war then men, even if they do stay home.  It must be because women are mothers....  Lenore, you’ve bucked me up.  I’ll go at things now.  The need for wheat next year will be beyond calculation.  I’ll buy ten thousand acres of that wheatland round old Chris Dorn’s farm.  An’ my shot at the Germans will be wheat.  I’ll raise a million bushels!”

* * * * *

Next morning in the mail was a long, thick envelope addressed to Lenore in handwriting that shook her heart and made her fly to the seclusion of her room.

    New York City, November —.

    DEAREST,—­when you receive this I will be in France.

Then Lenore sustained a strange shock.  The beloved handwriting faded, the thick sheets of paper fell; and all about her seemed dark and whirling, as the sudden joy and excitement stirred by the letter changed to sickening pain.