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.