It did not shock Wilbur Cowan that nations should plunge into another madness the very day after a certain fair one, mentioned in his meditations as “My Pearl—­My Pearl of great price,” and eke—­from the perfume label—­“My Heart of Flowers,” had revealed herself but a mortal woman with an eye for the good provider.  It occasioned Winona not even mild surprise that the world should abandon itself to hideous war on the very day after Lyman Teaford had wed beyond the purple.  It was awful, yet somehow fitting.  Anything less than a World War would have appeared inconsequent, anti-climactic, to these two so closely concerned in the preliminary catastrophe, and yet so reticent that neither ever knew the other’s wound.  Wilbur Cowan may have supposed that the entire Penniman family, Winona included, would rejoice that no more forever were they to hear the flute of Lyman Teaford.  Certainly Winona never suspected that a mere boy had been desolated by woman’s perfidy and Lyman’s mad abandonment of all that people of the better sort most prize.

Other people, close observers of world events, declared that no real war would ensue; it would be done in a few days—­a few weeks at most.  But Winona and Wilbur knew better.  Now anything could happen—­and would.  Of all Newbern’s wise folk these two alone foresaw the malign dimensions of the inevitably approaching cataclysm.  They would fall grimly silent in the presence of conventional optimists.  They knew the war was to be unparalleled for blood and tears, but they allowed themselves no more than sinister, vague prophecies, for they could not tell how they knew.

And they saw themselves active in war.  They lost no time in doing that.  The drama of each drew to a splendid climax with the arrival in Newbern of a French officer—­probably a general—­bound upon a grave mission.  Wilbur’s general came to seek out the wife of Lyman Teaford.

To her he said in choice English:  “Madame, I bring you sad news.  This young man died gallantly on the field of battle—­the flag of my country was about to be captured by the enemy when he leaped bravely forward, where no other would dare the storm of shot and shell, and brought the precious emblem safely back to our battle line.  But even as the cheers of his comrades rang in his ears an enemy bullet laid him low.  I sprang to his side and raised his head.  His voice was already weak, for the bullet had found rest in his noble heart.

“‘Tell her,’ he breathed, ’that she sent me to my death so that she might become only a bird in a gilded cage.  But tell her also that I wish her happiness in her new life.’  Madame, he died there, while weeping soldiers clustered about with hats off and heads bowed—­died with your name on his pale lips—–­’My Pearl of great price,’ he whispered, and all was over.  I bring you this photograph, which to the last he wore above his heart.  Observe the bullet hole and those dark stains that discolour your proud features.”