ing streets. The words of the
organist filled her mind. She felt prophetically her heart must pass
through fire.

WOULD she be strong enough--or would weakness--desire for joy--conquer
and kill the power within.

II

THE homesick girl of seventeen has given place to a worldly wise young
woman of twenty-five.

NO more longing for the land across the seas. The power within still
sleeps--Paris. With its pleasure haunts, its lights, its theatres--

JANET KNOTT--the center of an admiring coterie--she plays light
music--waltzes. The joy of being alive--the whirl of a great
city--subdued laughter of groups of men and women walking in the
moonlight--the flowering chestnut trees--the roses--

RACES of Longchamps--gay colors--a world of excitement.

LIFE--

ITS waves swept over her.

SHE had chosen between this and art--fulfillment of the Soul.

SOMETIMES shadows of her power rose--beckoned.

SHE consoled these moments with coquetry. A success--flowers

* * * * *

THE war broke out. Excitement still filled her. It would soon be over.

SOMETHING new--

THEN--one by one all the men she had known, flirted, danced with, left
for the front. To die. That the enemy should not pass.

PARIS in danger. Death and sorrow near.

THE best in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A desire to help grew until
she could contain it no longer.

ONE Sunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for Benediction--Kneeling in
the shadows of the pillars she heard the organ--sad agonizing chords

SORROW has played on the chords of my heart to teach me these deeper
tones--

THE memory of the little church, of the old organist--of herself, the
former Janet, the homesick child.

HER gift--was it dead or only sleeping? Could she awaken it--Spin a new
life on the webs of war--

THE shadow of the Janet of seventeen wept over the wasted years.

III

THERE seemed to be no end. The war-filled years crept slowly onward,
each day bringing more sorrow--more death.

JANET was torn in two.

THE human pleasure-loving side lay bleeding--dying inch by inch.

THE other, with tones of deepest beauty, rose above it, sighing that it
must take such tragedy to break down its prison bars--that it might
live.

IT rose--comforting Janet in many a weary hour--comforting the wounded,
the dying. In a village church which had been turned into a base
hospital she often played--and as they listened some pain was eased,
some pic