hil has come back
so old. That's what war does for our boys; in just a few months it turns
them into old men, the serious ones--and their eyes are older than any
living person's I ever saw."

"And Clarisse is still young. I think I understand."

"That's why I brought him here. In the city there would have been no
reason for her not coming to the hospital, but she couldn't come here
unless we sent for her--could she?" Again the fluttering hand groped as if
to untangle the complexity of thoughts and feelings in the poor confused
head. "I write her letters. I make them just as pleasant as I can. I don't
want to hurt her; she's so young."

Sheila nodded. "Does he love her?" That was the most important, for to
Sheila love was the key that could spring the lock of every barrier.

"He did, and I think she loves him--I think--"

Sheila went back to her patient and began the welding of a comradeship
that only such a woman can weld when her heart is full with love for
another man. Day by day she made him talk more. He told her of his
soldiering; apparently everything that had happened before held little or
no place in his scheme of life, and he told it as simply and directly as
if he had been a child. He made her see the months of training in camp,
when he grew to know his company and feel for the first time what the
brotherhood of arms meant. He told of the excitement of departure, the
spiritual thrill of marching forth to war with the heart of a crusader in
every boy's breast. His eyes shone when he spoke of their renunciation, of
the glory of putting behind them home and love until the world should be
made clean again and fit for happiness.

Sheila winced at this, but the boy did not notice; he was too absorbed in
the things he had to tell.

He told of the days of waiting in France, with the battle-front before
them like a mammoth drop-curtain, screening the biggest drama their lives
would ever know. "There we were, marking time with the big guns, wondering
if our turn would come next. That was a glorious feeling, worth all that
came afterward--when the curtain went up for us."

He raised himself on an elbow and looked into Sheila's cool, gray eyes
with eyes that burned of battle. "God! I can't tell you about it. There
have been millions of war books written by men who have seen more than I
have and who have the trick of words--and you've probably read them; you
know. Only reading isn't seeing it; it isn't _living it_.