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the passionate desire to give.

The wintry sunlight flooded the familiar sitting room, setting potted
geraniums ablaze, gilding the leather backs of old books, staining
prisms on the crystal chandelier with rainbow tints, and causing Max,
the family cat, to blink until the vertical pupils of his amber eyes
seemed to disappear entirely.

There was some snow outside--not very much--a wild bird or two among
the naked apple trees; green edges, still, where snowy lawn and flower
border met.

And there was colour in the leafless shrubbery, too--wine-red stems of
dogwood, ash-blue berry-canes, and the tangled green and gold of
willows. And over all a pale cobalt sky, and a snow-covered hill,
where, in the woods, crows sat cawing on the taller trees, and a slow
goshawk sailed.

A rich land, this, even under ice and snow--a rich, rolling land
hinting of fat furrows and heavy grain; and of spicy, old-time gardens
where the evenings were heavy with the scent of phlox and lilies.

Palla, her hands behind her back, seeming very childish and slim in
her black gown, stood searching absently among the books for
something to distract her--something in harmony with the restless glow
of hidden fires hot in her restless heart.

But war is too completely the great destroyer, killing even the
serener pleasures of the mind, corrupting normal appetite, dulling all
interest except in what pertains to war.

War is the great vandal, too, obliterating even that interest in the
classic past which is born of respect for tradition. War slays all
yesterdays, so that human interest lives only in the fierce and
present moment, or blazes anew at thought of what may be to-morrow.

Only the chronicles of the burning hour can hold human attention where
war is. For last week is already a decade ago; and last year a dead
century; but to-day is vital and to-morrow is immortal.

It was so with Palla. Her listless eyes swept the ranks of handsome,
old-time books--old favourites bound in gold and leather, masters of
English prose and poetry gathered and garnered by her grand-parents
when books were rare in Shadow Hill.

Not even the modern masters appealed to her--masters of fiction
acclaimed but yesterday; virile thinkers in philosophy, in science;
enfranchised poets who had stridden out upon Olympus only yesterday to
defy the old god's lightning with unshackled strophes--and sometimes
unbuttoned themes.

But it was with Palla as with others; sh