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 picture rose of happy fields, of homes. Would they see them again—
In this tragedy of nations she had found herself. Found the purpose of her life. Her art had come into its own—had comforted.
Death from a shell might take her—as it took thousands each day—but she was fulfilling the mission of her soul.