“In this awful time of the world, Mr. Joslin,” said she, “everyone ought to be useful. We’ll need more good citizens in America. All of us women ought to work in some way. The country must go on, until we’ve won. Where could I be more useful than here? Don’t you think I could keep the work going some way until—until you came back, David Joslin?”
Still he did not answer, and still she went on, struggling somewhat desperately with his native reticence and her own.
“Why, they say this is a war for democracy, don’t you know? And where could we fight better for democracy? Wasn’t that your ambition—wasn’t that your dream?”
“Yes!” suddenly he exclaimed, hoarsely. “That was my dream! You know how it ended—you know why. I killed my own school, you know how.”
“Yes—you’ve spoken very freely. It’s just as well. These are days when there’s no time to be lost. And I’d like you to know, at least how much I’ve marveled at what you’ve done.”
“Marveled!” said he. “It’s I who have marveled. But what you say—if you could keep the school going—why, that’s a miracle!”
“Well,” said Marcia Haddon quietly, “you’ve always spoken of miracles as matter of course.”
“Maybe we’d better not talk much more,” said he after a time, long silences seeming natural now. “I told you I wasn’t through. I’ve sinned, and I’ll repent. I’m ignorant—but I’m going out now to get the rest of my education. If I am spared ... some time ... I’ve told you about the other woman up there,” he finished, anguished. “As you know—she’s dead.”
“Is she dead forever, David Joslin?” asked Marcia Haddon quietly. The color in her own cheek was warm.