did not take women
and children and disabled civilians under the protecting wing of its
indignation.

Wet clothes were hanging down from the third floor. They fanned back and
forth the fumes of cabbage and grease. He grew sick, not at the thing
itself, but at thought of its being where he was to find Ann.

Though the fact that he was to find her made all the rest of it--the fact
that people lived that way--even the fact of her living that way--things
that mattered but dimly.

As he looked at the woman in greasy wrapper who was shaking out the wet
clothes he had a sudden mocking picture of Ann as she had been that night
at the dance.

The woman's manner in staring at him as he knocked at Ann's door
infuriated him.

But when the door was opened--by Ann--he instantly forgot all outside.

He closed the door and stood leaning against it, looking at her. For the
moment that was all that mattered. And in that moment he knew how much it
mattered--had mattered all along. Even how Ann looked was for the moment
of small consequence in comparison with the fact that Ann was there.

But he saw that she was indeed ill--worn--feverish.

"You are not well," were his first words, gently spoken.

She shook her head, her eyes brimming over.

He looked about the room. It was evident she had been lying on the bed.

"I want you to lie down," he said, his voice gentle as a woman's to a
child. "You know you don't mind me. I come as one of the family."

He helped her back to the bed; smoothed her pillow; covered her with the
miserable spread.

Ann hid her face in the pillow, sobbing.

He pulled up the one chair the room afforded, laid his hand upon her
hair, and waited. His face was white, his lips trembling.

"It's all over now," he murmured at last. "It's all over now."

She shook her head and sobbed afresh.

His heart grew cold. What did she mean? A fear more awful than any which
had ever presented itself shot through him. But she raised her head and
as she looked at him he knew that whatever she meant it was not that.

"What is it about Katie?" she whispered.

"Why, Ann, can't you guess what it is about Katie? Didn't you know what
Katie must suffer in your leaving like that?"

"I left so she wouldn't have to suffer."

"Well you were all wrong, Ann. You have caused us--" But as, looking into
her face, he saw what she had suffered, he was silenced.

She was feverish; her eyes were large and deep and perilously bright