cold hands together.

The rest of the evening always seemed like a fevered dream to her. Her
body was crowded by people but her soul was alone in a torture-chamber
of its own. Yet she played steadily for the drills and gave her
readings without faltering. She even put on a grotesque old Irish
woman's costume and acted the part in the dialogue which Miranda Pryor
had not taken. But she did not give her "brogue" the inimitable twist
she had given it in the practices, and her readings lacked their usual
fire and appeal. As she stood before the audience she saw one face
only--that of the handsome, dark-haired lad sitting beside her
mother--and she saw that same face in the trenches--saw it lying cold
and dead under the stars--saw it pining in prison--saw the light of its
eyes blotted out--saw a hundred horrible things as she stood there on
the beflagged platform of the Glen hall with her own face whiter than
the milky crab-blossoms in her hair. Between her numbers she walked
restlessly up and down the little dressing-room. Would the concert
never end!

It ended at last. Olive Kirk rushed up and told her exultantly that
they had made a hundred dollars. "That's good," Rilla said
mechanically. Then she was away from them all--oh, thank God, she was
away from them all--Walter was waiting for her at the door. He put his
arm through hers silently and they went together down the moonlit road.
The frogs were singing in the marshes, the dim, ensilvered fields of
home lay all around them. The spring night was lovely and appealing.
Rilla felt that its beauty was an insult to her pain. She would hate
moonlight for ever.

"You know?" said Walter.

"Yes. Irene told me," answered Rilla chokingly.

"We didn't want you to know till the evening was over. I knew when you
came out for the drill that you had heard. Little sister, I had to do
it. I couldn't live any longer on such terms with myself as I have been
since the Lusitania was sunk. When I pictured those dead women and
children floating about in that pitiless, ice-cold water--well, at
first I just felt a sort of nausea with life. I wanted to get out of
the world where such a thing could happen--shake its accursed dust from
my feet for ever. Then I knew I had to go."

"There are--plenty--without you."

"That isn't the point, Rilla-my-Rilla. I'm going for my own sake--to
save my soul alive. It will shrink to something small and mean and
lifeless if I don't go. That would be wo